The Light Heart by Elswyth Thane Page A

him.
    “Try to be just friends, knowing very well it will never be enough? That’s the hardest way of all, I think.”
    “Half a loaf,” said Phoebe, wondering how she dared.
    “I’m not sure,” he murmured, and his eyes were compassionate . “It depends on how hungry you are, perhaps.”
    “I seem to be starving,” said Phoebe, realizing it at last.
    “So am I. Famished. It won’t be simple, you know. People have so many eyes. And the walls have ears.”
    “There must be nothing for them to see or hear,” she said bravely. “Only when we’re alone like this will I even dare to look at you—like this. Promise you won’t mind if I seem to snub you when they’re watching.”
    “But I shall mind, like anything. And I shall give myself away with every breath I draw, I’m afraid. You won’t believe me, but nothing like this ever happened to me before, and I’ll be thirty in the autumn. How old are you?”
    “Twenty-one.”
    “Are you, really?” He found this surprising, and searched her defenceless face with his quick, shining eyes—so candid she was, so without veneer and worldly wisdom, as though she had grown up in a convent. What sort of engagement must it be, then, to have left her so unknowing? “What about this Miles?” he heard himself demanding, rather abruptly for him. “Do you mind my asking, he does seem to come into it, rather!”
    “He’s my cousin. I’ve loved him all my life. I thought.”
    “You’re sure you want to go on with it?”
    She nodded.
    “I can’t back out on him now. You—feel the same way about Maia, don’t you?”
    “Yes, I must. It’s been announced. But this isn’t what I want for you—you were meant for something more, you know that, don’t you.”
    “I reckon this is all,” said Phoebe and tried to smile, and heard again in her mind Virginia’s sage words in the dog-cart— a woman who marries a professional soldier ought to be the sort to fling herself into love head first and not care if it drowns her —and I don’t care, Phoebe told herself valiantly—I wouldn’t care what became of me if only Oliver went with it—the ends of the earth—come hell or high water—for better, for worse—oh, Oliver —
    “How honest you are,” he marvelled as though he read her thoughts, not touching her, just holding her bridle, while the horses fidgeted at a standstill in the road.
    “It’s not much use trying to hide it from you,” she sighed. “Just sitting there beside you at the table yesterday—it was like being very drunk, I should think—is it always like this to fall in love?”
    “No.” He was very grave. “Only once in a million it’s like this. It’s a sin not to do something about it, you know.”
    She shook her head.
    “I couldn’t go back on Miles. He doesn’t know how to stand up to things.”
    “And so I must pay the penalty,” he objected unfairly and repented. “Oh, I know—I can’t jilt a woman, it’s like cheating at cards, it won’t do! So I’m no better than you are. If I were, I might try to change your decision.”
    “No, don’t try,” she said quickly. “Don’t let’s waste time arguing about what can’t be helped. Let’s just be happy, while we can.”
    “You learn fast,” he said, watching her.
    “If only I can! We’ve got—how many weeks?”
    “My dear, we shall have only hours together, all told.”
    “But even hours —when I can talk to you—when I can learn from you—it’s better than nothing!” she insisted hopefully.
    He gave his half-laugh, and dropped his hand from her bridle and the horses moved on slowly, side by side.
    “I wonder how well I have learned the lesson myself,” he said. “I talk a lot. Now we shall see.”
    “I don’t want to make trouble for you,” Phoebe said with her touching docility. “Would you rather we ran?”
    “Lesson Number One,” said Oliver, and again all she could see was his profile. “ Never apologize. You have made all the trouble in the