The next day she came to him with
hurried, nervous steps, her usually pale cheeks mounting danger
signals of flaming red, her eyes swimming. When she greeted him she
choked, and two of the tears overflowed. Quite unmindful of the
nursemaids across the square, Orde put his arm comfortingly about
her shoulder. She hid her face against his sleeve and began softly
to cry.
Orde did not attempt as yet to draw from her the cause of this
unusual agitation. A park bench stood between two dense bushes,
screened from all directions save one. To this he led her. He
comforted her as one comforts a child, stroking clumsily her hair,
murmuring trivialities without meaning, letting her emotion relieve
itself. After awhile she recovered somewhat her control of herself
and sat up away from him, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief
dampened into a tiny wad. But even after she had shaken her head
vigorously at last, and smiled up at him rather tremulously in token
that the storm was over, she would not tell him that anything
definite had happened to bring on the outburst.
"I just needed you," she said, "that's all. It's just nothing but
being a woman, I think. You'll get used to little things like
that.
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