he corner of his eye
toward one of her hands that lay on the arm of the chair close beside
him; a big, beautiful hand like Kate herself, capable as little
Jemima's, but with the warmth, the healing in its touch, of Jacqueline's
own. When he pictured her to himself, he always saw first her eyes,
clear and direct as a boy's; then her lovely, curved lips; then these
sentient hands of hers. He wished that he had the courage to take the
hand in his own, to hold it against his breast, his cheek. It had been
his often enough to hold, and even to kiss; but always of her own
volition. She was as generous of caresses as her youngest daughter; but
it never occurred to Philip, nor had it perhaps occurred to other men
who loved her, that they might venture to take what she did not offer.
Kate was the giver, always.

Even now, as if aware of his thoughts, the hand lifted, strayed over to
touch the hair on his temples lightly as a butterfly, and came to rest
on his shoulder, drawing him a little closer. He sat very still,
thrilling to its touch. She might as well at that moment have laid her
hand on his bare heart. He wondered how many more seconds he could bear
it before he flung himself on his knees beside her and buried his face
in her lap....

"It's nice in here, so warm and dusky and comfy," she said. "Easier to
talk here than in that bare, ugly office of mine. I'm glad I came.--Now
the scolding is going to commence." The hand patted him affectionately.
"Phil, dear, are you _quite_ as frank with me as you used to be? Do you
still tell me everything you think and do and are? Isn't there something
you keep back nowadays?"

"Nothing," he answered in a rather choked voice, making one mental
reservation.

"If I hadn't your full confidence, I should miss it more than I can say.
You've spoiled me, dear. I want to be in everything that concerns you."

"You are," breathed poor Philip.

She leaned a little toward him. "No confidences, then? Nothing to ask
me, boy? Because it would be yours without asking." She waited a moment.
Silence--a very tense silence. "I don't know whether I've ever told you
how much I love you, how much I admire you. Only it's more than that.
You are the sort of man--my dear, if I could have had a son like you, I
should have been the proudest woman in the world! It breaks my heart to
think that Jacques does not know his great boy."

She felt him trembling under her touch, and went on with her
encouragement.