I did not realize the impulse that made me stretch out my hand, lay it upon his, and ask gently: 

“Please, Jack, don’t tell me anything important until after dinner.  I feel rather upset anyway.  Let’s have one of our care-free dinners and when we’ve finished we can talk.”

Jack gave me a long curious look under which I flushed hot.  Then he said brusquely, “All right, the weather and the price of flour, those are good safe subjects, we’ll stick to them.”

The dinner was perfect in every detail.  Jack ate heartily, and although I was too unstrung to eat much I managed to get enough down to deceive him into thinking I was enjoying the meal also.

The coffee and cheese dispatched, I leaned back and smiled at Jack.  “Now light your cigar,” I commanded.

“Not yet.  We’re going to talk a bit first, you and I.”

I felt that same little absurd thrill of apprehension.  Jack was changed in some way.  I could not tell just now.  He took my fingers in his big, strong hand.

“Look at me, Margaret.”

Jack’s voice was low and tense.  It held a masterful note I had never heard.  Without realizing that I did so, I obeyed him, and lifted my eyes to his.

What I read in them made me tremble.  This was a new Jack facing me across the table.  The cousin-brother, my best friend since my childhood, was gone.

I did not admit to myself why, but I wished, oh! so earnestly, that I had told Jack over the telephone of my marriage during his year’s absence in the South American wilderness, where he could neither send nor receive letters.

I must not wait another minute, I told myself.

“Jack,” I said brokenly, “there is something I want to tell you—­I’m afraid you will be angry, but please don’t be, big brother, will you?”

“There is something I’m going to tell you first,” Jack smiled tenderly at me, “and that is that this big brother stuff is done for, as far as I’m concerned.  In fact, I’ve been just faking the role for two or three years back, because I knew you didn’t care the way I wanted you to.  But this year out in the wilderness has made me realize just what life would be to me without you.  I’ve been kicking myself all over South America that I didn’t try to make you care.  I’ve just about gone through Gehenna, too, thinking you might fall in love with somebody while I was gone.  But I saw you didn’t wear anybody’s ring anyway, so I said to myself, ’I’m not going to wait another minute to tell her I love her, love her, love her.’”

Jack’s voice, pitched to a low key anyway, so that no one should be able to hear what he was saying, sank almost to a whisper with the last words.

I sat stunned, helpless, grief-stricken.

To think that I should be the one to bring sorrow to Jack, the gentlest, kindest friend I had ever known!

“Oh, Jack, don’t!” I moaned, and then, to my horror, I began to cry.  I could not control my sobs, although I covered my face with my handkerchief.