the utterly lonely and battle-weary eyes of the woman, who was _not_ a
child, a smile of happiness and comfort which parted her lips, so that
her face reminded him of sudden sunshine flashing into rainbow hope
through an April shower. He could feel the heart fluttering wildly in
her breast, and at once he knew that to her his kiss had meant an avowal
of love--that in her code there was no place for light or unmeaning
caresses.

He rose and his face paled. The indecisiveness which never dared to
grasp the thistle firmly was troubling him with a new dilemma. Yet
something in Marcia Terroll made a call upon him which no other woman
had yet made--the call to be honest at all cost.

With his averted face toward the window, in a forced and level voice,
not daring to meet her eyes, he told her almost all there was to tell
about Loraine Haswell. The new spark of manhood she had awakened in him
made him silent on one point. He said nothing of his own doubts; his own
wonder whether after all he loved or wanted Loraine. Just now he fancied
he wanted Marcia Terroll.

When the recital reached its end he stood for a space gazing into the
fog which seemed an emblem of his own life. He was waiting for her to
speak, but the silence remained unbroken. At last he turned and saw her
sitting there no longer tearful, only a little stunned.

"I couldn't lie to you," he protested in a hurried utterance as he came
over and knelt on the floor at her side. "Not to you.... Of course, you
know that I love you very dearly as a man loves his rarest friends....
You know what our comradeship means to me--"