And,
more than either, though she sometimes smilingly pretended to
deny it to herself, was the ultimate fact that she loved him. His
voice was music to her, his presence joy. He brought with him
sunshine, and peace, and happiness.
He was always so reliable, so little the victim of his moods.
What could have come over him now to change him in that swift
instant? Was she to blame? Had she unknowingly been at fault? Or
was there something in her story that had chilled him? It was
characteristic of her that it was herself she doubted and not
him; that it never occurred to her that her hero had feet of clay
like other men.
She felt her heart begin to swell, and choked back a sob. It
wrung him to hear the little breath catch, but he was a man,
strong-willed and resolute. Though he dug his finger nails into
his palms till the flesh was cut he would not give way to his
desire.
"You're not angry at me--Bucky?" she asked softly.
"No, I'm not angry at you." His voice was cold because he dared
not trust himself to let his tenderness creep into it.
"I haven't done anything that I ought not to? Perhaps you think
it wasn't--wasn't nice to--to come here with you.
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