"She had, Elinor. I was in France you know."
He was afraid when he had said it--it sounded so much like a title out of
a movie--but he looked steadily at her and saw all the color go out of her
face and then return to it burningly.
"Well, that wasn't anything to be--forgiven about exactly--was it?" she
said unsteadily.
He spoke carefully, in broken sentences, only the knowledge that this was
the only way he could think of to help things nerving his mind. "It wasn't
being in France, Elinor. It was--the adjuncts. I don't suppose I was any
worse than most of my outfit--but that didn't make it any easier when I had
to tell her I hadn't been any better. I felt," his voice rose, his literary
trick of mind had come to his rescue now and made him know just how he
would have felt if it had really happened, "I felt as if I were in hell.
Really. But I had to tell her. And when she'd forgiven me that--and said
that it was all right--that it didn't make any real difference now--I
thought she was about the finest person in the world--for telling me such
nice lies. And after that--I was so sure that it was all right--that
because of her knowing and still being able to care--it would last--oh
well--"
He stopped, waiting for Elinor but Elinor for a person so voluble a little
while ago seemed curiously unwilling to speak.
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