"But why does it _have_ to be that way? Andrew isn't bitter and it isn't
her fault--she wasn't even born then. She doesn't even know."
"I think it's mostly the money," said David slowly. "If she were poor it
would be all right to forgive her and take her, but a man couldn't very
well marry his father's blood money. And he's suffering God knows. Here
I've been counting for years on his getting love-tied at home, and to
think it should be like this! Sometimes I wish she _did_ know--she offers
herself to him like a little child; and thinks she is only doing
reverence to the poet. It's driving him mad, but he won't cut and run."
"And yet," said Phoebe, "it would kill her to know. She is so sensitive
and she has just begun to be herself with us. She has had so few friends
and she isn't like we are. Why, Polly Farrell could manage such a
situation better than Caroline Darrah. She is so elemental that she is
positively--primitive. I am frightened about it sometimes--I can only
trust Andrew." As Phoebe spoke her eyes grew sad and her lips quivered.
"Dear heart," said David as he took both her hands in his, "it's just one
of those fatal things that no man can see through; he can just be
thankful that there's a God to handle 'em." There were times when David
Kildare's voice held more of tenderness than Phoebe was calculated to
withstand without heroic effort. It behooved her to exert the utmost at
this moment in order that she might hold her own.
"It's making me thin," she ventured as she shook a little shower of tears
off her black lashes and again smilingly regained control of her own
hands, but displaying a slender blue-veined wrist for his sympathetic
inspection.
"Help!" exclaimed David, taking possession of the wrist and circling it
with his thumb and forefinger. "Let me send for a crate of eggs and a
case of the malt-milk! You poor starved peach-bud you, _why won't_ you
marry me and let me feed you? I'm going--"
"But you and the major both recommended 'lovers' troubles' to me, David,"
Phoebe hazarded.
"I only recommended _my_ own special brand, remember," retorted David. "I
won't have you ill! I'm going to see that you do as I say about your--"
"David Kildare," remarked the major from the door into the hall, "if you
use that tone to the grand jury they will shut up every saloon in Hell's
Half Acre. Hail the judge! My boy, my boy, I knew you'd line up when the
time came--and the line!"
"Can I count on the full artillery of the _Gray Picket_ brigade, Major?"
demanded David with delight in his eyes as he returned the major's
vigorous hand-shake.