"Nothing, I was only thinking, but I’ll have to speak to Law first. One thing is sure, I’m not going to be an ass much longer. See here, Miss Walden, you’re a sturdy sort; you’ve stuck it out with me at my lowest. I’m going to repay you for the trouble I’ve made you by making more for you. I’m going to go away this summer, too. I’ve wanted to go lately. I’ve got to dreaming about it. I’m going to a little place hidden away in Canada. I have something to do there."
"For a time I couldn’t contemplate it; I was too proud to show my battered hulk. Now it seems that I have no longer any right to consider myself. I was going to ask Mr. Law to carry a message for me to a young girl there; the girl on that canvas by the window. Instead—I’m going to carry it!"
Donelle’s hands gripped each other. She struggled to keep her voice steady, cold.
"I think you ought to carry your message yourself, if you can. You have no right to consider only yourself," she faltered.
"I wasn’t, entirely." This came humbly from Norval. "The girl to whom I am going is the sort who would be deeply sorry for me; she’d go to any lengths to make up to me, if she could. Of course, you understand, I would not let her, but I’d hate to make life harder for her."
"Perhaps she has a right to—to judge for herself." Donelle was holding firm.
"Well, I don’t know, Miss Walden. Such a woman as you might judge wisely—even for yourself. She wouldn’t. She’s the kind that risks everything; she’s what you might call a divine gambler."
"Yes, that’s what I often say of her—poor girl!"
It was twilight in the quiet studio; there was no one to see Donelle’s tears.
"I’m going to tell you something," Norval said suddenly, "something that has been troubling me lately. At first it didn’t seem vital, it seemed rather like a detail. I’m wondering how a woman would consider it."
"I’d love to hear unless you’d rather have me read to you, Mr. Norval."
"No, for a wonder, I’d rather tell you a story."
And then Norval told Donelle about Tom Gavot.
"You see that girl in Canada is married—was married, I mean; the young fellow is dead. He lies under French earth in a pretty little village that’s been battered to the ground. Some day it will rise gloriously again. I like to think of that Canadian boy sleeping there, waiting.