To her amazement he appeared later with
the mattress and pillows. He had always left her to carry them before.
She gathered that it was her role to be waited on, and resented it.
"We'll sleep up here to-night, girlie," he said. "I know you like it."
"It almost seems a waste of time to sleep, doesn't it?" she said, her
eyes filled with dreams. "And yet all the while, whether we're awake or
asleep, talking or working, he's getting nearer and nearer--without our
doing anything towards it!" Her eyes, as she spoke, were out seeking the
far invisible bar of the Pacific.
"It doesn't fit in with you, Marcella," he said, and her eyes focussed
on the glowing end of his cigarette. "I can't imagine you ill and
weak--or--or--motherly. Well, yes, perhaps motherly, because that's how
you are to me sometimes. But you seem too young, somehow."
"Whom the gods love die young," she quoted softly. "Because they keep
young. I'll be ever so young when I'm a nice old lady with white hair. I
shall have it cut short then, like a choir boy's in saint pictures. And
as for being ill and weak, I never shall. I simply won't have it."
"My dear, oh my dear, you'll have to. And I'll have to take care of you.
All women need taking care of."
She gave a little short, quiet laugh.
"You'll not make me take off my armour, Louis," she said.
Pages:
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393