"
"And Jean?"
"Oh, I think you know. You saw her tonight."
He felt a sudden sense of age and loneliness. "She won't miss me,
then?"
"Do you think that anyone could make up to your little Jean for the
loss of her father?"
He covered his face with his hand. "You are feeling it like that?" she
asked, gently.
"Yes. She is all I have, Emily. And I am
jealous--desperately--desperately."
She searched for words to comfort him, and at last they came. "She
will be very proud of her Daddy in France."
"Do you think she will?"
"I know it."
"And yet--I am not really worthy of all that she gives--"
She leaned forward, her white hands in her lap. Jean's comment echoed
once more in his ears. "I like Emily's hands much better than
Hilda's." They seemed, indeed, to represent all that was lovely in
Emily, her refinement, her firmness, her gentle spirit.
"Bruce," she said--she rarely called him that--"your dear wife would
never have loved you if you hadn't been worthy of love."
"I need her--to hold me to my best."
"Hold yourself to it, Bruce--" She stood up. "I must go to bed, and
so must you.
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