The Breakers

He entered the deserted dining-room, came over to where Rue was
waiting, and sat down, heavily, holding an unlighted cigar between his
stubby fingers.

"Well, little girl," he said with forced cheerfulness, "was I away
very long?"

"Not very."

"You didn't miss me?" he inquired, ponderously playful.

His heavy pleasantries usually left her just a little doubtful and
confused, for he seldom smiled when he delivered himself of them.

He leaned across the cloth and laid a hot, cushiony hand over both of
hers, where they lay primly clasped on the table edge: "Don't you ever miss me when I'm away from you, Rue?" he asked.

"I think--it is nice to be with you," she said, hotly embarrassed by
the publicity of his caress.

"I don't believe you mean it." But he smiled this time. At which the
little rigid smile stamped itself on her lips; but she timidly
withdrew her hands from his.

"Rue, I don't believe you love me." This time there was no smile.

She found nothing to answer, being without any experience in
give-and-take conversation, which left her always uncertain and
uncomfortable.

For the girl was merely a creature still in the making--a soft,
pliable thing to be shaped to perfection only by the light touch of
some steady, patient hand that understood--or to be marred and ruined
by a heavy hand which wrought at random or in brutal haste.

Brandes watched her for a moment out of sleepy, greenish eyes. Then he
consulted his watch again, summoned a waiter, gave him the
parcels-room checks, and bade him have a boy carry their luggage into
the lobby.