It completes the picture of a--home--"
"Yes," she interrupted, in a rough, broken voice. "It is a perfect
picture, is it not? Just so, as it is--only, of course--" she laughed
as he had never heard her laugh before--"of course it's only a
tableau--it isn't real."
Once more her head was bent over her work. He saw how with every
stitch she was fighting stubbornly for calm--fighting with all the
dogged desperation of a high-minded woman who sees herself trembling
at the edge of a bottomless abyss. He knew now for certain that her
apparent happiness was a sham and an heroic lie--that she knew what he
knew of Travers' outside life, and suffered with the intensity which
honor must suffer when linked with dishonor. He saw, with a soldier's
instinctive admiration, that she was holding her ground against the
fierce and unexpected attack of an overwhelming enemy, and that he,
who had his own battle to fight, must hold out to her a helping,
strengthening comrade's hand.
"Lois!" he said quietly. "Lois!"
She went on working. The name had been a test of her strength, and she
had borne it. He knew that he could go on with what he had to say.
"Lois, we had our young enthusiasms in those old days--crazes, we will
call them--and of course, like all young enthusiasms, they are gone
for ever. But there were other things. Sometimes we used to talk very
seriously about life, do you remember? I dare say we talked nonsense
for the greater part--we were very young--but we were intensely
serious.
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