"Glad! Oh, Gerry, my soul's been singing since I heard your voice down here and I knew that you'd come and you're safe; and the war's over!"
He had her in his arms, her slight, vibrant figure close to him, her eyes turned up to his. Gently—gently as upon that time when she disengaged his fingers from his clasp of her shoulders—she raised her hands and put them upon his breast and thrust him back. The touch of her hands and the tenderness of her strength sent rills of delight racing through him, but he did not understand them.
"Ruth, I love you; can't you love me?"
"Love you!" Her eyes closed for a moment as though she no longer dared to look at him. Her resistance to him had relaxed; now she thrust back from him again; but he did not permit it. He overpowered her, drawing her against him. So she opened her eyes.
"The war's over, Gerry."
"Thank God, Ruth! . . . . I couldn't let myself even dream of this before, dearest."
"You mustn't say that!"
"Why not?"
"We'll all be going back soon, Gerry—those of us who've lived—back to what we've been before. That's why I kept you waiting so long. I had to change to this." She looked down at her dress and he released her a little to glance down also, wonderingly.
"Why? What about it, dear?"
"It's my own—the only thing of mine you've ever seen me in; I used to wear this at the office where I worked. You know, I told you."
