Not until Audrey's eyes closed again, and he saw that she was sleeping,
did he loosen his arms from around her.
When at last he went out to the stiffly furnished hospital parlor, he
found Mrs. Haverford sitting there alone, still knitting. But he rather
thought she had been crying. There was an undeniably moist handkerchief
on her knee.
"She roused a little while ago," he said, trying to speak quietly, and
as though Audrey's rousing were not the wonder that it was. "She seemed
very comfortable. And now she's sleeping."
"The dear child!" said Mrs. Haverford. "If she had died, after
everything--" Her plump face quivered. "Things have never been very
happy for her, Clayton."
"I'm afraid not." He went to a window and stood looking out. The
city was not quiet, but its mighty roar of the day was lowered to a
monotonous, drowsy humming. From the east, reflected against low-hanging
clouds, was the dull red of his own steel mills, looking like the
reflection of a vast conflagration.
"Not very happy," he repeated.
"Some times," Mrs. Haverford was saying, "I wonder about things. People
go along missing the best things in life, and--I suppose there is a
reason for it, but some times I wonder if He ever meant us to go on,
crucifying our own souls."
So she did know!
"What would you have us do?"
"I don't know. I suppose there isn't any answer."
Afterward, Clayton found that that bit of conversation with Mrs.
Haverford took on the unreality of the rest of that twenty-four hours.
But one part of it stood out real and hopelessly true. There wasn't any
answer!