She tightened her fingers on his arm.
"Edward, please!" she said.
He stopped. "Well?" he said gruffly. Then, as she said nothing
further, he turned slowly and looked at her. Her head was bent. She
was striving for self-control. Something in her attitude went straight
to the man's heart. She looked so small, so forlorn, so pathetic in
her struggle for dignity.
On a generous impulse he flung his own away. "Oh, come, my dear!" he
said, and stooping took her into his arms. "I'm sorry. There!"
She clung to him then, clung closely, still battling to check the tears
that she knew he disliked.
He kissed her forehead and patted her shoulder with a queer compunction
that had never troubled him before in his dealings with her.
"There!" he said. "There! That's all right, isn't it? We shall have Miss
Moore in directly. Where's your handkerchief?"
She found it and dried her eyes with her head against his shoulder. Then
she lifted a still quivering face to his. "Edward,--I'm--just as sorry
as you are," she said, with a catch in her voice.
He kissed her again, wondering a little at his own softened feelings.
"All right, my girl. Let's forget it!" he said.
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