Page:MacGrath--The luck of the Irish.djvu/340



IS hair was rumpled; he had thrown off his coat and collar, and the shirt was open at the throat. His shoulders filled the doorway; through the thin texture of the silk shirt the great, quiescent muscles were conspicuous; and yet his air was one of abject helplessness. He ran his fingers through his hair as if to reassure himself. She was by now very familiar with his gesture.

"I've been a coward," he began, his glance roving and pausing, avoiding as much as he could her wide, startled gray eyes. "But I couldn't put it off any longer. I've got to tell you what's on my mind, and I don't want any strangers around. God knows it's hard enough as it is!"

She might have been marble, for all the visible effect of those halting words.

"In the first place, I want you to forgive me the wrong I've done you."

"Wrong?" The trend, so absolutely at variance with what she had been expecting, befogged her.

"Ye-ah. I didn't honestly mean anything wrong, but I've done a whole lot of thinking lately. When I asked you to marry me you weren't yourself. You'd just been through seven kinds of hell.