He had a vision of a small, delicate, wistful child
pining away for his absent sister. Consumptive probably. Or
curvature of the spine.
He found Claire's hand in his. He supposed dully he must have
reached out for it. Soft and warm it lay there, while the universe
paused breathlessly. And then from the semi-darkness beside him
there came the sound of a stifled sob, and his fingers closed as
if someone had touched a button.
'We have always been such chums. He is only ten--such a dear boy!
He must be missing me--'
She stopped, and simultaneously Dudley Pickering began to speak.
There is this to be said for your shy, cautious man, that on the
rare occasions when he does tap the vein of eloquence that vein
becomes a geyser. It was as if after years of silence and
monosyllables Dudley Pickering was endeavouring to restore the
average.
He began by touching on his alleged neglect and avoidance of
Claire. He called himself names and more names. He plumbed the
depth of repentance and remorse. Proceeding from this, he
eulogized her courage, the pluck with which she presented a
smiling face to the world while tortured inwardly by separation
from her little brother Percy. He then turned to his own feelings.
But there are some things which the historian should hold sacred,
some things which he should look on as proscribed material for his
pen, and the actual words of a stout manufacturer of automobiles
proposing marriage in the moonlight fall into this class.
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