But would she
have found pleasure in the sound of his voice, the touch of his hand?
Hollister's intelligence answered "No." For externally his appearance
would have been a shock, would have inhibited the pleasant intimacy at
which they so soon arrived.
Doris made light of his disfigurement. She could comprehend clearly
many things unseen--but not that. Hollister knew she must have created
some definite image of him in her mind; something, he suspected, which
must correspond closely to her ideal of a man, something that was dear
to her. If that ideal did not--and his intelligence insisted that he
could not--survive the reality, then his house was built on sand and
must topple.
And he must dig and pry at the foundations. He must do all that could
be done for her eyes. That was her right,--to see, to be free of her
prison of darkness, to be restored to the sight of beauty, to
unclouded vision of the world and all it contained, no matter what the
consequence to him. He would play the game, although he felt that he
would lose.
A cloud seemed to settle on him when he considered that he might lose
everything that made life worth while.
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