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I see you one day, gravity itself, a serious young
woman - as you are to-day. And then I hear - it isn't like you,
Audrey."
"Oh yes, it is. It's exactly like me. Like one me. There are
others, of course."
She told him then, making pitiful confession of her own pride and
her anxiety to spare Chris's name.
"I couldn't bear to have them suspect he had gone to the war because
of a girl. Whatever he ran away from, Clay, he's doing all right
now."
He listened gravely, with, toward the end, a jealousy he would not
have acknowledged even to himself. Was it possible that she still
loved Chris? Might she not, after the fashion of women, be building
a new and idealized Chris, now that he had gone to war, out of his
very common clay?
"He has done splendidly," he agreed.
Again the warmth and coziness of the little room enveloped him.
Audrey's low huskily sweet voice, her quick smile, her new and
unaccustomed humility, and the odd sense of her understanding,
comforted him.


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