"No, that's true. But if you were married it wouldn't make any difference
to Morrison."
Carley could not detect bitterness or jealousy in his voice. She would not
have been averse to hearing either. She gathered from his remark, however,
that he was going to be harder than ever to understand. What had she said
or done to make him retreat within himself, aloof, impersonal, unfamiliar?
He did not impress her as loverlike. What irony of fate was this that held
her there yearning for his kisses and caresses as never before, while he
watched the fire, and talked as to a mere acquaintance, and seemed sad and
far away? Or did she merely imagine that? Only one thing could she be sure
of at that moment, and it was that pride would never be her ally.
"Glenn, look here," she said, sliding her chair close to his and holding
out her left hand, slim and white, with its glittering diamond on the
third finger.
He took her hand in his and pressed it, and smiled at her. "Yes, Carley,
it's a beautiful, soft little hand. But I think I'd like it better if it
were strong and brown, and coarse on the inside--from useful work."
"Like Flo Hutter's?" queried Carley.
"Yes."
Carley looked proudly into his eyes.
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