I
tried to."
"You hadn't a chance in the world, Clay, when I was willing you to
come."
Then there was one of those silences which come when words have
shown their absolute absurdity. It seemed a long time before he
broke it.
"I'm not young, Audrey. And I have failed once."
"It takes two to make a failure," she said dauntlessly. "I
- wouldn't let you fail again, Clay. Not if you love me."
"If I love you!" Then he was, somehow, in that grotesque position
that is only absurd to the on-looker, on his knees beside her. His
terrible self-consciousness was gone. He only knew that, somehow,
some way, he must prove to her his humility, his love, his terrible
fear of losing her again, his hope that together they might make up
for the wasted years of their lives. "I worship you," he said.
The little room was a sanctuary. The war lay behind them. Wasted
and troubled years lay behind them. Youth, first youth, was gone,
with its illusions and its dreams. But before them lay the years
of fulfilment, years of understanding.
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