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She read it with a glance first,
then slowly, painfully, her heart contracted as if a hand had
squeezed it. She stood very still, not so much stricken as
horrified, and her first conscious thought was of remorse, terrible,
gasping remorse. All that afternoon, while she had been hating
Natalie and nursing her love for Clay, Chris had been lying dead
somewhere.
Chris was dead.
She felt very tired, but not faint. It seemed dreadful, indeed,
that she could be standing there, full of life, while Chris was
dead. Such grief as she felt was for him, not for herself. He had
loved life so, even when he cheapened it. He had wanted to live
and now he was dead. She, who did not care greatly to live, lived
on, and he was gone.
All at once she felt terribly alone. She wanted some one with her.
She wanted to talk it all out to some one who understood. She
wanted Clay. She said to herself that she did not want him because
she loved him. All love was dead in her now. She wanted him
because he was strong and understanding.


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