suppose it was his good-byes with Grace. I kept on wondering what they had said to each other, wishing I knew! "Let's sit down, kid," he said abruptly. "I've a lot to say." "Let's sit down, kid," he said abruptly. "I've a lot to say." We sat down. We sat down. We seemed to have the whole, beautiful, wonderful world to ourselves—only it was an empty old eggshell of a thing, because he didn't care. We seemed to have the whole, beautiful, wonderful world to ourselves—only it was an empty old eggshell of a thing, because he didn't care. "Pam," he said, "I want to thank you for being a fine little pal to me. I—I must have seemed a pretty rotten sort of swine often." "Pam," he said, "I want to thank you for being a fine little pal to me. I—I must have seemed a pretty rotten sort of swine often." Now, as I write him down and the things he says, he doesn't cut a very gallant figure, and yet he is. He's a big man—his eyes, his laugh, his voice, the funny way he says things. He makes all other men seem little and very young. Now, as I write him down and the things he says, he doesn't cut a very gallant figure, and yet he is. He's a man—his eyes, his laugh, his voice, the funny way he says things. He makes all other men seem little and very young. "Oh no!" I said. I shut my eyes because I could concentrate on getting carelessness into my voice, and it all hurt so horribly. "Oh no!" I said. I shut my eyes because I could concentrate on getting carelessness into my voice, and it all hurt so horribly. He seems little and ordinary—I can pop the atmosphere on paper—but he wasn't; he was big, and splendid, and very, very far away from me. I seemed to look at him through glass and hear him through space. He isn't the type that could share himself with two women—I expect I got that feeling because he'd given everything to Grace. He seems little and ordinary—I can pop the atmosphere on
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