Mary found Leila puzzling over this letter. "It doesn't sound like
Barry," she said, in a little frightened voice. "May I read it to you,
Mary?"
Mary had stopped in for tea on her way home from the office. But the
tea waited.
"Barry is usually so--hopeful," Leila said, when she had finished;
"somehow I can't help--worrying."
Mary was worried. She knew these moods. Barry had them when he was
fighting "blue devils." She was afraid--haunted by the thought of
Jerry. She tried to speak cheerfully.
"You'll be going over soon," she said, "and then all the world will be
bright to him."
Leila hesitated. "I wish," she faltered, "that I could be with him now
to help him--fight."
Mary gave her a startled glance. Their eyes met.
"Leila," Mary said, with a little gasp, "who told you?"
"Barry"--the tea was forgotten--"before--before he went away." The
vision was upon her of that moment when he had knelt at her feet on
their bridal night.
Haltingly, she spoke of her lover's weakness. "I've wanted to ask you,
Mary, and when this letter came, I just had to ask. If you think it
would be better--if we were married, if I could make a home for him."
"It wouldn't be better for you."
"I don't want to think about myself," Leila said, passionately;
"everybody thinks about me. It is Barry I want to think of, Mary."
Mary patted the flushed cheek. "Barry is a fortunate boy," she said.
Then, with hesitation, "Leila, when you knew, did it make a difference?"
"Difference?"
"In your feeling for Barry?"
And now the child eyes were woman eyes. "Yes," she said, "it made a
difference. But the difference was this--that I loved him more. I
don't know whether I can explain it so that you will understand, Mary.
But then you aren't like me. You've always been so wonderful, like
Barry. But you see I've never been wonderful. I've always been just a
little silly thing, pretty enough for people to like, and childish
enough for everybody to pet, and because I was pretty and little and
childish, nobody seemed to think that I could be anything else. And
for a long time I didn't dream that Barry was in love with me. I just
knew that I--cared. But it was the kind of caring that didn't expect
much in return. And when Barry said that I was the only woman in the
world for him--I had the feeling that it was a pleasant dream, and
that--that some day I'd wake up and find that he had made a mistake and
that he should have chosen a princess instead of just a little
goosie-girl. But when I knew that Barry had to fight, everything
changed. I knew that I could really help. More than the princess,
perhaps, because you see she might not have cared to bother--and she
might not have loved him enough to--overlook."