Dangerous Days

"I don't think," she said, glancing away from him, "that one finds it

by looking for it. That is selfish, and the selfish are never happy.

It comes--oh, in queer ways. When you're trying to give it to somebody

else, mostly."

"There is happiness, of a sort, in work."

Their eyes met. That was what they had to face, she dedicated to

service, he to labor.

"It's never found by making other people unhappy, Clay."

"No. And yet, if the other people are already unhappy?"

"Never!" she said. And the answer was to the unspoken question in both

their hearts.

It was not until they were in the taxicab that Clayton forced the

personal note, and then it came as a cry, out of the very depths of him.

She had slipped her hand into his, and the comfort of even that small

touch broke down the barriers he had so carefully erected.

"I need you so!" he said. And he held her hand to his face. She made no

movement to withdraw it.

"I need you, too," she replied. "I never get over needing you. But we

are going to play the game, Clay. We may have our weak hours--and this

is one of them--but always, please God, we'll play the game."

The curious humility he felt with her was in his voice.

"I'll need your help, even in that."

And that touch of boyishness almost broke down her reserve of strength.

She wanted to draw his head down on her shoulder, and comfort him. She

wanted to smooth back his heavy hair, and put her arms around him and

hold him. There was a great tenderness in her for him. There were times

when she would have given the world to have gone into his arms and let

him hold her there, protected and shielded. But that night she was the

stronger, and she knew it.

"I love you, Audrey. I love you terribly."

And that was the word for it. It was terrible. She knew it.

"To have gone through all the world," he said, brokenly, "and then to

find the Woman, when it is too late. Forever too late." He turned toward

her. "You know it, don't you? That you are my woman?"

"I know it," she answered, steadily. "But I know, too--"

"Let me say it just once. Then never again. I'll bury it, but you will

know it is there. You are my woman. I would go through all of life alone

to find you at the end. And if I could look forward, dear, to going

through the rest of it with you beside me, so I could touch you, like

this--"