"What d'you think of that?" she would say. "D'you get it? He thinks
he's getting her--Alice Joyce, you know--on the telephone, and it's
a private wire to the gang." She was rather quiet after that
particular speech. Then she added: "I know a place that's got a
secret telephone." But he was absorbed in the picture, and made no
comment on that. She seemed rather relieved.
Once or twice she placed an excited hand on his knee. He was very
uncomfortable until she removed it, because he had a helpless sort
of impression that she was not quite so unconscious of it as she
appeared. Time had been, and not so long ago, when he might have
reciprocated her little advance in the spirit in which it was
offered, might have taken the hand and held it, out of the sheer
joy of youth and proximity. But there was nothing of the philanderer
in the Willy Cameron who sat beside Edith Boyd that night in body,
while in spirit he was in another state, walking with his slight limp
over crisp snow and sodden mud, but through magic lands, to the
little moving picture theater at the camp.
Would he ever see her again? Ever again? And if he did, what good
would it be? He roused himself when they started toward her home.
Pages:
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99