He shrank from seeming to want
her approval, but at the same time he wanted it. His faith in
himself had been shaken. He needed it restored. And some of the
exaltation which had led him to make his proffer to the government
came back when he saw how she flushed over it.
"It's very big," she said, softly. "It's like you, Clay. And
that's the best thing I can say. I am very proud of you."
"I would rather have you proud of me than anything in the world,"
he said, unsteadily.
They drifted, somehow, to talking of happiness. And always,
carefully veiled, it was their own happiness they discussed.
"I don't think," she said, glancing away from him, "that one finds
it by looking for it. That is selfish, and the selfish are never
happy. It comes - oh, in queer ways. When you're trying to give
it to somebody else, mostly."
"There is happiness, of a sort, in work."
Their eyes met. That was what they had to face, she dedicated to
service, he to labor.
"It's never found by making other people unhappy, Clay.
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