Burned Bridges

Sophie put her arm around his neck, and her fingers played a tattoo on

his shoulder.

"No," she said at last. "I can't honestly say that I've ever been

overwhelmed with a feeling like that."

"Well, there you are," Carr observed dryly. "Between the propositions I

think you've answered your own question."

The girl's breast heaved a little and her breath went out in a

fluttering sigh.

"Yes," she said gravely. "I suppose that is so."

They sat silent for an interval. Then something wet and warm dropped on

Carr's hand. He looked up quickly.

"Does it hurt?" he said softly. "I'm sorry."

"So am I," she whispered. "But chiefly, I think, I am sorry for Tommy.

He'd be perfectly happy with me."

"Yes, I suppose so," Carr replied. "But you wouldn't be happy with him,

only for a brief time, Sophie. Tommy's a good boy, but it will take a

good deal of a man to fill your life. You'd outgrow Tommy. And you'd

hurt him worse in the end."

She ran her soft hand over Carr's grizzled hair with a caressing touch.

Then she got up and walked away into the house. Carr turned his gaze

again to the meadow and the green woods beyond. For ten minutes he sat,

his posture one of peculiar tensity, his eyes on the distance

unseeingly--or as if he saw something vague and far-off that troubled

him. Then he gave his shoulders a quick impatient twitch, and taking up

his book began once more to read.