Part 45 (2/2)

”No, little woman; only, I feel as though I'd like to know you as I know myself. I'd like to feel that there was n't a nook or cranny in your mind that was n't open to me.”

”Peter!”

”Is that asking too much?”

”Some day you must know, but not now.”

”If Mrs. Covington--”

”Must we talk any more about her?” she exclaimed.

”I did n't know it hurt you.”

”It does--more than you realize.”

”I'm sorry,” he said quickly.

He fumbled about for her hand. She allowed him to take it.

”Have you heard from Covington since he left?”

He felt her fingers twitch.

”Does it hurt, too, to talk about him?” he asked.

”It's impossible to talk about Monte without talking about his--his--about Mrs. Covington,” Marjory explained feebly.

”They ought to be one,” he admitted. ”But you said they are about to separate.”

”Yes, Peter; only I keep thinking of what ought to be.”

She withdrew her hand and leaned back on the seat a little away from him.

Sensitive to every movement of hers, he glanced up at this.

”Somehow,”--he said, with a strained expression,--”somehow I feel the need of seeing your eyes to-day. There's something I 'm missing.

There's something here I don't understand.”

”Don't try to understand, Peter,” she cried. ”It's better that you should n't.”

”It's best always to know the truth,” he said.

”Not always.”

”Always,” he insisted.

”Sometimes it does n't do any good to know the truth. It only hurts.”

”Even then, it's best. When I get my eyes--”

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