"I think
we're like those two in The Cloister and the Hearth. I'm just the
rough Burgundian cross-bow man, Denys, who followed that gentle Gerard
and told everybody that the devil was dead."
"He isn't, though," said Bibbs, as a hoarse little bell in the next
room began a series of snappings which proved to be ten, upon count.
"He gets into the clock whenever I'm with you." And, sighing deeply
he rose to go.
"You're always very prompt about leaving me."
"I--I try to be," he said. "It isn't easy to be careful not to risk
everything by giving myself a little more at a time. If I ever saw
you look tired--"
"Have you ever?"
"Not yet. You always look--you always look--"
"How?"
"Care-free. That's it. Except when you feel sorry for me about
something, you always have that splendid look. It puts courage into
people to see it. If I had a struggle to face I'd keep remembering
that look--and I'd never give up! It's a brave look, too, as though
gaiety might be a kind of gallantry on your part, and yet I don't
quite understand why it should be, either." He smiled quizzically,
looking down upon her. "Mary, you haven't a 'secret sorrow,' have
you?"
For answer she only laughed.
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