So you tell her twice as much as is wise. You
have no interest for her. Her eyes are fixed on her work. She asks
you the secret of your life, and then bends farther over, seeming to
forget your existence. Desperate, you shout it at her, and she looks
up and smiles, a wondering, distraught smile; then goes on knitting.
There were some things in Tim's letter that I did not intend to tell
Mary. He had written to me in confidence. A man does not mind letting
one of his fellows know that he is in love with a woman, but to let a
woman know it is different. She will think him a fool, unless she is
his inspiration. I knew Tim. I knew that he was no fool, and I did
not wish her to get such an impression. I loved a pretty woman. So
did Tim. But Mary would not understand it in Tim's case. That was why
I folded the letter when I had read the first four pages.
But Mary was knitting. "It is fine to think he is getting along so
well," she said.
She looked up, but not at me. Her face was turned to the window; her
eyes were over the valley which was growing gray, for the sun was down.
Pages:
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154