And you're a child, an overgrown bean-pole of a boy,
fourteen or fifteen years old."
The young man stood tall and still--a statue of golden youth in the
golden light--the woman clutching at his arm, her face twisted, her
eyes afire, all the colorlessness of her body and the suppressed flame
of her spirit pitilessly apparent.
"Look at me, Pete."
"Well," he sighed gently, "what of it?" He looked down at her and
smiled. "It's the first good time he's had for fifteen years. You
know we don't make him happy. I don't grudge him his joy, Bella, do
you? It can't last long, anyway. Fairy tales can't hurt her--Hugh
believes--almost--in his own inventions. She'll be going back--her
friends will be hunting for her. I'll let her think I'm a bean-pole
of a boy if it makes him any happier to have me one. And why do you
care?"
She drew in her breath. "Oh, I don't suppose I care--so much," she
said haltingly. "But--think of the girl."
His eyes widened a little and fell. "The girl?"
"She's falling in love with him!"
Pete threw back his head and laughed aloud. "Oh, Bella, you know,
_that's_ funny!"
"It's not. It's tragic. It's horrible. You'll see. Watch her face.
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