Saturday Evening Post (4 July 1931)
I
It was the first day warm enough to eat outdoors in the Bois de
Boulogne, while chestnut blossoms slanted down across the tables and dropped
impudently into the butter and the wine. Julia Ross ate a few with her bread
and listened to the big goldfish rippling in the pool and the sparrows whirring
about an abandoned table. You could see everybody again — the waiters with
their professional faces, the watchful Frenchwomen all heels and eyes, Phil
Hoffman opposite her with his heart balanced on his fork, and the
extraordinarily handsome man just coming out on the terrace.
— the purple noon’s transparent might.
The breath of the moist air is light
Around each unexpanded bud
—
Julia trembled discreetly; she controlled herself; she didn’t
spring up and call, “Yi-yi-yi-yi! Isn’t this grand?” and push the maître
d’hôtel into the lily pond. She sat there, a well-behaved woman of twenty-one,
and discreetly trembled.
Phil was rising, napkin in hand. “Hi there, Dick!”
“Hi, Phil!”
It was the handsome man; Phil took a few steps forward and they
talked apart from the table.
“ — seen Carter and Kitty in Spain — ”
“ — poured on to the Bremen — ”
“ — so I was going to — ”
The man went on, following the head waiter, and Phil sat down.
“Who is that?” she demanded.
“A friend of mine — Dick Ragland.”
“He’s without doubt the handsomest man I ever saw in my life.”
“Yes, he’s handsome,” he agreed without enthusiasm.
“Handsome! He’s an archangel, he’s a mountain lion, he’s something
to eat. Just why didn’t you introduce him?”
“Because he’s got the worst reputation of any American in Paris.”
“Nonsense; he must be maligned. It’s all a dirty frame-up — a lot
of jealous husbands whose wives got one look at him. Why, that man’s never done
anything in his life except lead cavalry charges and save children from
drowning.”
“The fact remains he’s not received anywhere — not for one reason
but for a thousand.”
“What reasons?”
“Everything. Drink, women, jails, scandals, killed somebody with
an automobile, lazy, worthless — ”
“I don’t believe a word of it,” said Julia firmly. “I bet he’s
tremendously attractive. And you spoke to him as if you thought so too.”
“Yes,” he said reluctantly, “like so many alcholics, he has a
certain charm. If he’d only make his messes off by himself somewhere — except
right in people’s laps. Just when somebody’s taken him up and is making a big
fuss over him, he pours the soup down his hostess’ back, kisses the serving
maid and passes out in the dog kennel. But he’s done it too often. He’s run
through about everybody, until there’s no one left.”
“There’s me,” said Julia.
There was Julia, who was a little too good for anybody and
sometimes regretted that she had been quite so well endowed. Anything added to
beauty has to be paid for — that is to say, the qualities that pass as
substitutes can be liabilities when added to beauty itself. Julia’s brilliant
hazel glance was enough, without the questioning light of intelligence that flickered
in it; her irrepressible sense of the ridiculous detracted from the gentle
relief of her mouth, and the loveliness of her figure might have been more
obvious if she had slouched and postured rather than sat and stood very
straight, after the discipline of a strict father.
Equally perfect young men had several times appeared bearing
gifts, but generally with the air of being already complete, of having no space
for development. On the other hand, she found that men of larger scale had
sharp corners and edges in youth, and she was a little too young herself to
like that. There was, for instance, this scornful young egotist, Phil Hoffman,
opposite her, who was obviously going to be a brilliant lawyer and who had
practically followed her to Paris. She liked him as well as anyone she knew,
but he had at present all the overbearance of the son of a chief of police.
“Tonight I’m going to London, and Wednesday I sail,” he said. “And
you’ll be in Europe all summer, with somebody new chewing on your ear every few
weeks.”
“When you’ve been called for a lot of remarks like that you’ll
begin to edge into the picture,” Julia remarked. “Just to square yourself, I
want you to introduce that man Ragland.”
“My last few hours!” he complained.
“But I’ve given you three whole days on the chance you’d work out
a better approach. Be a little civilized and ask him to have some coffee.”
As Mr. Dick Ragland joined them, Julia drew a little breath of
pleasure. He was a fine figure of a man, in coloring both tan and blond, with a
peculiar luminosity to his face. His voice was quietly intense; it seemed
always to tremble a little with a sort of gay despair; the way he looked at
Julia made her feel attractive. For half an hour, as their sentences floated
pleasantly among the scent of violets and snowdrops, forget-me-nots and
pansies, her interest in him grew. She was even glad when Phil said:
“I’ve just thought about my English visa. I’ll have to leave you
two incipient love birds together against my better judgment. Will you meet me
at the Gare St. Lazare at five and see me off?”
He looked at Julia hoping she’d say, “I’ll go along with you now.”
She knew very well she had no business being alone with this man, but he made
her laugh, and she hadn’t laughed much lately, so she said: “I’ll stay a few
minutes; it’s so nice and springy here.”
When Phil was gone, Dick Ragland suggested a fine
champagne.
“I hear you have a terrible reputation?” she said impulsively.
“Awful. I’m not even invited out any more. Do you want me to slip
on my false mustache?”
“It’s so odd,” she pursued. “Don’t you cut yourself off from all
nourishment? Do you know that Phil felt he had to warn me about you before he
introduced you? And I might very well have told him not to.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I thought you seemed so attractive and it was such a pity.”
His face grew bland; Julia saw that the remark had been made so
often that it no longer reached him.
“It’s none of my business,” she said quickly. She did not realize
that his being a sort of outcast added to his attraction for her — not the
dissipation itself, for never having seen it, it was merely an abstraction —
but its result in making him so alone. Something atavistic in her went out to
the stranger to the tribe, a being from a world with different habits from hers,
who promised the unexpected — promised adventure.
“I’ll tell you something else,” he said suddenly. “I’m going
permanently on the wagon on June fifth, my twenty-eighth birthday. I don’t have
fun drinking any more. Evidently I’m not one of the few people who can use
liquor.”
“You sure you can go on the wagon?”
“I always do what I say I’ll do. Also I’m going back to New York
and go to work.”
“I’m really surprised how glad I am.” This was rash, but she let
it stand.
“Have another fine?” Dick suggested. “Then you’ll be
gladder still.”
“Will you go on this way right up to your birthday?”
“Probably. On my birthday I’ll be on the Olympic in mid-ocean.”
“I’ll be on that boat too!” she exclaimed.
“You can watch the quick change; I’ll do it for the ship’s
concert.”
The tables were being cleared off. Julia knew she should go now,
but she couldn’t bear to leave him sitting with that unhappy look under his
smile. She felt, maternally, that she ought to say something to help him keep
his resolution.
“Tell me why you drink so much. Probably some obscure reason you
don’t know yourself.”
“Oh, I know pretty well how it began.”
He told her as another hour waned. He had gone to the war at
seventeen and, when he came back, life as a Princeton freshman with a little
black cap was somewhat tame. So he went up to Boston Tech and then abroad to
the Beaux Arts; it was there that something happened to him.
“About the time I came into some money I found that with a few
drinks I got expansive and somehow had the ability to please people, and the
idea turned my head. Then I began to take a whole lot of drinks to keep going
and have everybody think I was wonderful. Well, I got plastered a lot and
quarreled with most of my friends, and then I met a wild bunch and for a while
I was expansive with them. But I was inclined to get superior and suddenly
think ‘What am I doing with this bunch?’ They didn’t like that much. And when a
taxi that I was in killed a man, I was sued. It was just a graft, but it got in
the papers, and after I was released the impression remained that I’d killed
him. So all I’ve got to show for the last five years is a reputation that makes
mothers rush their daughters away if I’m at the same hotel.”
An impatient waiter was hovering near and she looked at her watch.
“Gosh, we’re to see Phil off at five. We’ve been here all the
afternoon.”
As they hurried to the Gare St. Lazare, he asked: “Will you let me
see you again; or do you think you’d better not?”
She returned his long look. There was no sign of dissipation in
his face, in his warm cheeks, in his erect carriage.
“I’m always fine at lunch,” he added, like an invalid.
“I’m not worried,” she laughed. “Take me to lunch day after
tomorrow.”
They hurried up the steps of the Gare St. Lazare, only to see the
last carriage of the Golden Arrow disappearing toward the Channel. Julia was
remorseful, because Phil had come so far.
As a sort of atonement, she went to the apartment where she lived
with her aunt and tried to write a letter to him, but Dick Ragland intruded
himself into her thoughts. By morning the effect of his good looks had faded a
little; she was inclined to write him a note that she couldn’t see him. Still,
he had made her a simple appeal and she had brought it all on herself. She
waited for him at half-past twelve on the appointed day.
Julia had said nothing to her aunt, who had company for luncheon
and might mention his name — strange to go out with a man whose name you
couldn’t mention. He was late and she waited in the hall, listening to the
echolalia of chatter from the luncheon party in the dining room. At one she
answered the bell.
There in the outer hall stood a man whom she thought she had never
seen before. His face was dead white and erratically shaven, his soft hat was
crushed bunlike on his head, his shirt collar was dirty, and all except the
band of his tie was out of sight. But at the moment when she recognized the
figure as Dick Ragland she perceived a change which dwarfed the others into
nothing; it was in his expression. His whole face was one prolonged sneer — the
lids held with difficulty from covering the fixed eyes, the drooping mouth
drawn up over the upper teeth, the chin wabbling like a made-over chin in which
the paraffin had run — it was a face that both expressed and inspired disgust.
“H’lo,” he muttered.
For a minute she drew back from him; then, at a sudden silence
from the dining room that gave on the hall, inspired by the silence in the hall
itself, she half pushed him over the threshold, stepped out herself and closed
the door behind them.
“Oh-h-h!” she said in a single, shocked breath.
“Haven’t been home since yest’day. Got involve’ on a party at — ”
With repugnance, she turned him around by his arm and stumbled
with him down the apartment stairs, passing the concierge’s wife, who peered out
at them curiously from her glass room. Then they came out into the bright
sunshine of the Rue Guynemer.
Against the spring freshness of the Luxembourg Gardens opposite,
he was even more grotesque. He frightened her; she looked desperately up and
down the street for a taxi, but one turning the corner of the Rue de Vaugirard
disregarded her signal.
“Where’ll we go lunch?” he asked.
“You’re in no shape to go to lunch. Don’t you realize? You’ve got
to go home and sleep.”
“I’m all right. I get a drink I’ll be fine.”
A passing cab slowed up at her gesture.
“You go home and go to sleep. You’re not fit to go anywhere.”
As he focused his eyes on her, realizing her suddenly as something
fresh, something new and lovely, something alien to the smoky and turbulent world
where he had spent his recent hours, a faint current of reason flowed through
him. She saw his mouth twist with vague awe, saw him make a vague attempt to
stand up straight. The taxi yawned.
“Maybe you’re right. Very sorry.”
“What’s your address?”
He gave it and then tumbled into a corner, his face still
struggling toward reality. Julia closed the door.
When the cab had driven off, she hurried across the street and
into the Luxembourg Gardens as if someone were after her.
II
Quite by accident, she answered when he telephoned at seven that
night. His voice was strained and shaking:
“I suppose there’s not much use apologizing for this morning. I
didn’t know what I was doing, but that’s no excuse. But if you could let me see
you for a while somewhere tomorrow — just for a minute — I’d like the chance of
telling you in person how terribly sorry — ”
“I’m busy tomorrow.”
“Well, Friday then, or any day.”
“I’m sorry, I’m very busy this week.”
“You mean you don’t ever want to see me again?”
“Mr. Ragland, I hardly see the use of going any further with this.
Really, that thing this morning was a little too much. I’m very sorry. I hope
you feel better. Good-by.”
She put him entirely out of her mind. She had not even associated
his reputation with such a spectacle — a heavy drinker was someone who sat up
late and drank champagne and maybe in the small hours rode home singing. This
spectacle at high noon was something else again. Julia was through.
Meanwhile there were other men with whom she lunched at Ciro’s and
danced in the Bois. There was a reproachful letter from Phil Hoffman in
America. She liked Phil better for having been so right about this. A fortnight
passed and she would have forgotten Dick Ragland, had she not heard his name
mentioned with scorn in several conversations. Evidently he had done such
things before.
Then, a week before she was due to sail, she ran into him in the
booking department of the White Star Line. He was as handsome — she could
hardly believe her eyes. He leaned with an elbow on the desk, his fine figure
erect, his yellow gloves as stainless as his clear, shining eyes. His strong,
gay personality had affected the clerk who served him with fascinated
deference; the stenographers behind looked up for a minute and exchanged a
glance. Then he saw Julia; she nodded, and with a quick, wincing change of
expression he raised his hat.
They were together by the desk a long time and the silence was
oppressive.
“Isn’t this a nuisance?” she said.
“Yes,” he said jerkily, and then: “You going by the Olympic?”
“Oh, yes.”
“I thought you might have changed.”
“Of course not,” she said coldly.
“I thought of changing; in fact, I was here to ask about it.”
“That’s absurd.”
“You don’t hate the sight of me? So it’ll make you seasick when we
pass each other on the deck?”
She smiled. He seized his advantage:
“I’ve improved somewhat since we last met.”
“Don’t talk about that.”
“Well then, you have improved. You’ve got the loveliest costume on
I ever saw.”
This was presumptuous, but she felt herself shimmering a little at
the compliment.
“You wouldn’t consider a cup of coffee with me at the café next
door, just to recover from this ordeal?”
How weak of her to talk to him like this, to let him make
advances. It was like being under the fascination of a snake.
“I’m afraid I can’t.” Something terribly timid and vulnerable came
into his face, twisting a little sinew in her heart. “Well, all right,” she
shocked herself by saying.
Sitting at the sidewalk table in the sunlight, there was nothing
to remind her of that awful day two weeks ago. Jekyll and Hyde. He was
courteous, he was charming, he was amusing. He made her feel, oh, so
attractive! He presumed on nothing.
“Have you stopped drinking?” she asked.
“Not till the fifth.”
“Oh!”
“Not until I said I’d stop. Then I’ll stop.”
When Julia rose to go, she shook her head at his suggestion of a
further meeting.
“I’ll see you on the boat. After your twenty-eighth birthday.”
“All right; one more thing: It fits in with the high price of
crime that I did something inexcusable to the one girl I’ve ever been in love
with in my life.”
She saw him the first day on board, and then her heart sank into
her shoes as she realized at last how much she wanted him. No matter what his
past was, no matter what he had done. Which was not to say that she would ever
let him know, but only that he moved her chemically more than anyone she had
ever met, that all other men seemed pale beside him.
He was popular on the boat; she heard that he was giving a party
on the night of his twenty-eighth birthday. Julia was not invited; when they
met they spoke pleasantly, nothing more.
It was the day after the fifth that she found him stretched in his
deck chair looking wan and white. There were wrinkles on his fine brow and
around his eyes, and his hand, as he reached out for a cup of bouillon, was
trembling. He was still there in the late afternoon, visibly suffering, visibly
miserable. After three times around, Julia was irresistibly impelled to speak
to him:
“Has the new era begun?”
He made a feeble effort to rise, but she motioned him not to and
sat on the next chair.
“You look tired.”
“I’m just a little nervous. This is the first day in five years
that I haven’t had a drink.”
“It’ll be better soon.”
“I know,” he said grimly.
“Don’t weaken.”
“I won’t.”
“Can’t I help you in any way? Would you like a bromide?”
“I can’t stand bromides,” he said almost crossly. “No, thanks, I
mean.”
Julia stood up: “I know you feel better alone. Things will be
brighter tomorrow.”
“Don’t go, if you can stand me.”
Julia sat down again.
“Sing me a song — can you sing?”
“What kind of a song?”
“Something sad — some sort of blues.”
She sang him Libby Holman’s “This is how the story ends,” in a
low, soft voice.
“That’s good. Now sing another. Or sing that again.”
“All right. If you like, I’ll sing to you all afternoon.”
III
The second day in New York he called her on the phone. “I’ve
missed you so,” he said. “Have you missed me?”
“I’m afraid I have,” she said reluctantly.
“Much?”
“I’ve missed you a lot. Are you better?”
“I’m all right now. I’m still just a little nervous, but I’m
starting work tomorrow. When can I see you?”
“When you want.”
“This evening then. And look — say that again.”
“What?”
“That you’re afraid you have missed me.”
“I’m afraid that I have,” Julia said obediently.
“Missed me,” he added.
“I’m afraid I have missed you.”
“All right. It sounds like a song when you say it.”
“Good-by, Dick.”
“Good-by, Julia dear.”
She stayed in New York two months instead of the fortnight she had
intended, because he would not let her go. Work took the place of drink in the
daytime, but afterward he must see Julia.
Sometimes she was jealous of his work when he telephoned that he
was too tired to go out after the theater. Lacking drink, night life was less
than nothing to him — something quite spoiled and well lost. For Julia, who
never drank, it was a stimulus in itself — the music and the parade of dresses
and the handsome couple they made dancing together. At first they saw Phil
Hoffman once in a while; Julia considered that he took the matter rather badly;
then they didn’t see him any more.
A few unpleasant incidents occurred. An old schoolmate, Esther
Cary, came to her to ask if she knew of Dick Ragland’s reputation. Instead of
growing angry, Julia invited her to meet Dick and was delighted with the ease
with which Esther’s convictions were changed. There were other, small, annoying
episodes, but Dick’s misdemeanors had, fortunately, been confined to Paris and
assumed here a far-away unreality. They loved each other deeply now — the
memory of that morning slowly being effaced from Julia’s imagination — but she
wanted to be sure.
“After six months, if everything goes along like this, we’ll
announce our engagement. After another six months we’ll be married.”
“Such a long time,” he mourned.
“But there were five years before that,” Julia answered. “I trust
you with my heart and with my mind, but something else says wait. Remember, I’m
also deciding for my children.”
Those five years — oh, so lost and gone.
In August, Julia went to California for two months to see her
family. She wanted to know how Dick would get along alone. They wrote every
day; his letters were by turns cheerful, depressed, weary and hopeful. His work
was going better. As things came back to him, his uncle had begun really to
believe in him, but all the time he missed his Julia so. It was when an
occasional note of despair began to appear that she cut her visit short by a
week and came East to New York.
“Oh, thank God you’re here!” he cried as they linked arms and
walked out of the Grand Central station. “It’s been so hard. Half a dozen times
lately I’ve wanted to go on a bust and I had to think of you, and you were so
far away.”
“Darling — darling, you’re so tired and pale. You’re working too
hard.”
“No, only that life is so bleak alone. When I go to bed my mind
churns on and on. Can’t we get married sooner?”
“I don’t know; we’ll see. You’ve got your Julia near you now, and
nothing matters.”
After a week, Dick’s depression lifted. When he was sad, Julia
made him her baby, holding his handsome head against her breast, but she liked
it best when he was confident and could cheer her up, making her laugh and feel
taken care of and secure. She had rented an apartment with another girl and she
took courses in biology and domestic science in Columbia. When deep fall came,
they went to football games and the new shows together, and walked through the
first snow in Central Park, and several times a week spent long evenings
together in front of her fire. But time was going by and they were both impatient.
Just before Christmas, an unfamiliar visitor — Phil Hoffman — presented himself
at her door. It was the first time in many months. New York, with its quality
of many independent ladders set side by side, is unkind to even the meetings of
close friends; so, in the case of strained relations, meetings are easy to
avoid.
And they were strange to each other. Since his expressed
skepticism of Dick, he was automatically her enemy; on another count, she saw
that he had improved, some of the hard angles were worn off; he was now an
assistant district attorney, moving around with increasing confidence through
his profession.
“So you’re going to marry Dick?” he said. “When?”
“Soon now. When mother comes East.”
He shook his head emphatically. “Julia, don’t marry Dick. This
isn’t jealousy — I know when I am licked — but it seems awful for a lovely girl
like you to take a blind dive into a lake full of rocks. What makes you think
that people change their courses? Sometimes they dry up or even flow into a
parallel channel, but I’ve never known anybody to change.”
“Dick’s changed.”
“Maybe so. But isn’t that an enormous ‘maybe’? If he was
unattractive and you liked him, I’d say go ahead with it. Maybe I’m all wrong,
but it’s so darn obvious that what fascinates you is that handsome pan of his
and those attractive manners.”
“You don’t know him,” Julia answered loyally. “He’s different with
me. You don’t know how gentle he is, and responsive. Aren’t you being rather
small and mean?”
“Hm.” Phil thought for a moment. “I want to see you again in a few
days. Or perhaps I’ll speak to Dick.”
“You let Dick alone,” she cried. “He has enough to worry him
without your nagging him. If you were his friend you’d try to help him instead
of coming to me behind his back.”
“I’m your friend first.”
“Dick and I are one person now.”
But three days later Dick came to see her at an hour when he would
usually have been at the office.
“I’m here under compulsion,” he said lightly, “under threat of
exposure by Phil Hoffman.”
Her heart dropping like a plummet. “Has he given up?” she thought.
“Is he drinking again?”
“It’s about a girl. You introduced me to her last summer and told
me to be very nice to her — Esther Cary.”
Now her heart was beating slowly.
“After you went to California I was lonesome and I ran into her.
She’d liked me that day, and for a while we saw quite a bit of each other. Then
you came back and I broke it off. It was a little difficult; I hadn’t realized
that she was so interested.”
“I see.” Her voice was starved and aghast.
“Try and understand. Those terribly lonely evenings. I think if it
hadn’t been for Esther, I’d have fallen off the wagon. I never loved her — I
never loved anybody but you — but I had to see somebody who liked me.”
He put his arm around her, but she felt cold all over and he drew
away.
“Then any woman would have done,” Julia said slowly. “It didn’t
matter who.”
“No!” he cried.
“I stayed away so long to let you stand on your own feet and get
back your self-respect by yourself.”
“I only love you, Julia.”
“But any woman can help you. So you don’t really need me, do you?”
His face wore that vulnerable look that Julia had seen several
times before; she sat on the arm of his chair and ran her hand over his cheek.
“Then what do you bring me?” she demanded. “I thought that there’d
be the accumulated strength of having beaten your weakness. What do you bring
me now?”
“Everything I have.”
She shook her head. “Nothing. Just your good looks — and the head
waiter at dinner last night had that.”
They talked for two days and decided nothing. Sometimes she would
pull him close and reach up to his lips that she loved so well, but her arms
seemed to close around straw.
“I’ll go away and give you a chance to think it over,” he said
despairingly. “I can’t see any way of living without you, but I suppose you
can’t marry a man you don’t trust or believe in. My uncle wanted me to go to
London on some business — ”
The night he left, it was sad on the dim pier. All that kept her
from breaking was that it was not an image of strength that was leaving her;
she would be just as strong without him. Yet as the murky lights fell on the
fine structure of his brow and chin, as she saw the faces turn toward him, the
eyes that followed him, an awful emptiness seized her and she wanted to say:
“Never mind, dear; we’ll try it together.”
But try what? It was human to risk the toss between failure and
success, but to risk the desperate gamble between adequacy and disaster —
“Oh, Dick, be good and be strong and come back to me. Change,
change, Dick — change!”
“Good-by, Julia — good-by.”
She last saw him on the deck, his profile cut sharp as a cameo
against a match as he lit a cigarette.
IV
It was Phil Hoffman who was to be with her at the beginning and
the end. It was he who broke the news as gently as it could be broken. He
reached her apartment at half-past eight and carefully threw away the morning
paper outside. Dick Ragland had disappeared at sea.
After her first wild burst of grief, he became purposely a little
cruel.
“He knew himself. His will had given out; he didn’t want life any
more. And, Julia, just to show you how little you can possibly blame yourself,
I’ll tell you this: He’d hardly gone to his office for four months — since you
went to California. He wasn’t fired because of his uncle; the business he went
to London on was of no importance at all. After his first enthusiasm was gone
he’d given up.”
She looked at him sharply. “He didn’t drink, did he? He wasn’t
drinking?”
For a fraction of a second Phil hesitated. “No, he didn’t drink;
he kept his promise — he held on to that.”
“That was it,” she said. “He kept his promise and he killed
himself doing it.”
Phil waited uncomfortably.
“He did what he said he would and broke his heart doing it,” she
went on chokingly. “Oh, isn’t life cruel sometimes —so cruel, never to let
anybody off. He was so brave — he died doing what he said he’d do.”
Phil was glad he had thrown away the newspaper that hinted of
Dick’s gay evening in the bar — one of many gay evenings that Phil had known of
in the past few months. He was relieved that was over, because Dick’s weakness
had threatened the happiness of the girl he loved; but he was terribly sorry
for him — even understanding how it was necessary for him to turn his
maladjustment to life toward one mischief or another — but he was wise enough
to leave Julia with the dream that she had saved out of wreckage.
There was a bad moment a year later, just before their marriage,
when she said:
“You’ll understand the feeling I have and always will have about
Dick, won’t you, Phil? It wasn’t just his good looks. I believed in him — and I
was right in a way. He broke rather than bent; he was a ruined man, but not a
bad man. In my heart I knew when I first looked at him.”
Phil winced, but he said nothing. Perhaps there was more behind it
than they knew. Better let it all alone in the depths of her heart and the
depths of the sea.