He moved uneasily and his chair creaked.
"Yes, I was then. You know. But afterward. . ."
"Yes, yes," she hurried, pulling her hand gently
away from him. Presently it stole back to his coat sleeve.
"Please tell me one thing, Bartley. At least,
tell me that you believe I thought I was making you happy."
His hand shut down quickly over the
questioning fingers on his sleeves.
"Yes, Hilda; I know that," he said simply.
She leaned her head against his arm and spoke softly:--
"You see, my mistake was in wanting you to
have everything. I wanted you to eat all
the cakes and have them, too. I somehow
believed that I could take all the bad
consequences for you. I wanted you always to be
happy and handsome and successful--to have
all the things that a great man ought to have,
and, once in a way, the careless holidays that
great men are not permitted."
Bartley gave a bitter little laugh, and
Hilda looked up and read in the deepening
lines of his face that youth and Bartley
would not much longer struggle together.
"I understand, Bartley. I was wrong. But I
didn't know. You've only to tell me now.
What must I do that I've not done, or what
must I not do?" She listened intently, but she
heard nothing but the creaking of his chair.
"You want me to say it?" she whispered.
"You want to tell me that you can only see
me like this, as old friends do, or out in the
world among people? I can do that.
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