CHAPTER
XXVI
Never in all her career of coquetry had Pat devoted more careful planning than to her meeting with Cary Scott when he should return. At first sight of him all her elaborate campaign was dissipated in consternation. “Mist-er Scott!” she cried. He had come out from the city direct to Holiday Knoll and was standing in the library, as she came downstairs to meet him, the morning light brilliant on his haggard face. At her exclamation a wry smile twisted his lips. “Still that, to you?” he asked. She moved toward him slowly, a little shyly, with fut tering hands outstretched, lips upturned, rather from the wish to comfort his manifest suffering than from any impulse of passion within herself. He drew her into his arms,
bent
over
her, kissed her gently.
She felt him
tremble in her clasp. “What is it, Cary?” she whispered. “You look too appalling.” “J haven’t slept very well.” She drew back to survey him. “I don’t believe you’ve slept at all,’ she pronounced. “Have you?” “It doesn’t matter.” “Tt does! You mustn’t take it that way.” His expression told her that her coolness amazed him,
And, then, suddenly, by reflex from him, it amazed herself. It was so exactly the reverse of the programmed course of events as presented in the familiar media of her reading. She, the woman, the “betrayed,” was striving to comfort and reassure ge the man, the “betrayer.” 26
