He felt the surging
forces within him rise and batter at the gate of his self-control. He
wanted to say, "Gila, I love you!" but the words stuck in his throat.
What had he done? Whence came this sense of defeat and loss? The
Presence! Where was the Presence? Yes--there--but withdrawn, standing
apart in sadness, while he sat comforting and caressing one who had just
said she hated Him! But that was because she had not seen Him yet! She
was frightened because she did not understand! He would yet be able to
make her see! He would implore the Presence to come to her; to break
down her prejudice; to let her have the vision also!
So he sat and comforted her, yet longed to get away and think it out.
This sense of depression and bitter disappointment hung about him like a
burden; now, of all times, when he should be happy if ever he was to be!
But Gila was nestling close, patting his sleeve, talking little, sweet
nonsensical words as if she had really been the little child she seemed.
He looked down at her and smiled. How small she was, and child-like. He
must remember that she was very young, and probably had never had much
bringing-up. Serious things frightened her! He must go gently and lead
her! It made him feel old and responsible to look at her--tender,
beautiful girl!--enveloped as she was in the garment of his ideal of
womanhood.
Yet there was something about it all that drove him from her.
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