"Then why don't you, Gil? She'd make you very happy--a woman like that. I
want you to understand."
"Don't you suppose I do? Don't you suppose I've always understood, ever
since--"
"Ever since when, Gil? Then you have known such a woman?"
He moved his head.
"You have!... And you cared for her?"
He nodded again.
"You loved her?" she hurried on.
His voice was hoarse. "Yes." The monosyllable got out somehow.
"You still love her. I know it, I can see it. Who is she, Gil? I want to
know."
"Don't you know?" he asked, and looked her straight in the eyes.
Before she could answer, there were footsteps outside, and Pell could be
heard whistling. He rushed in now, the bag still clutched in his hand. At
once he sensed something strange in their attitude, and he eyed both of
them shrewdly, covertly, briefly. Not a word was uttered. He threw the bag
on the table, as though he had noticed nothing, and in the most
matter-of-fact tone said,
"Say, how about dinner?"
"It isn't ready yet," Gilbert informed him. Lucia took advantage of her
husband's question to move over toward the door.
"Why, good God, man, it's nearly three o'clock! We're not on a hunger
strike, are we?" And he laughed at his own dull witticism.
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