He could not fathom, at that moment, the mystery that lay back of her marvelous, grief-burdened eyes; but, long afterward, he remembered the way she looked upon him, and then he knew.
"God forbid!" she cried. Then, suddenly, the incongruity, the boldness, the unwomanliness of what she had been saying flashed upon her, and she covered her face with her hands. Seeing how great was her perturbation he sought to soothe her.
"Never mind!" he said; "we'll not discuss it any more now. Some other time perhaps."
She took her hands down from her eyes.
"No, not any other time," she declared. "Not ever again. I can't—bear it."
"As you wish. I'm so sorry to have distressed you. And you came to comfort me, and to offer help."
"I still offer it."
"And the time will come when you shall give it in even greater abundance than you have given it in the past."
She had already risen to go, and she took his proffered hand. His grasp was so firm and strong and friendly—and lingering. The door of the rectory closed behind her, and with colorless face and mist-covered eyes she groped her way to the street.
As she turned into the main thoroughfare she saw the Malleson car go by, and in it were Barry and Jane Chichester, each in a fur coat, bound presumably for Blooming Grove.
But Mary Bradley walked back to the Potter Building, to the narrow, second floor rear room which constituted the office of the Socialist League, hung her plain hat and coat on their accustomed peg, took out her books and papers, and applied herself to her tasks.
