I knew one once, more
than thirty years ago, who was like that: he died a long time
ago. And sometimes I take out his picture, with its cane and its
queer silk hat, and look at it. But of late years it has grown
too painful: he is always a boy--and I am an old woman. I would
not bring him back if I could.
Perhaps it was some such memory that made me call out sharply.
"Come in, Halsey." And then I took my sewing and went into the
boudoir beyond, to play propriety. I did not try to hear what
they said, but every word came through the open door with curious
distinctness. Halsey had evidently gone over to the bed and I
suppose he kissed her. There was silence for a moment, as
if words were superfluous things.
"I have been almost wild, sweetheart,"--Halsey's voice. "Why
didn't you trust me, and send for me before?"
"It was because I couldn't trust myself," she said in a low tone.
"I am too weak to struggle to-day; oh, Halsey, how I have wanted
to see you!"
There was something I did not hear, then Halsey again.
"We could go away," he was saying. "What does it matter about
any one in the world but just the two of us? To be always
together, like this, hand in hand; Louise--don't tell me it isn't
going to be. I won't believe you."
"You don't know; you don't know," Louise repeated dully.
"Halsey, I care--you know that--but--not enough to marry you."
"That is not true, Louise," he said sternly. "You can not look
at me with your honest eyes and say that.
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