Harvey's amiable prattle about the weather and took him to her with his
arms out.

"Sara Lee!" he said. "Don't look like that!"

"Like what?" said Sara Lee prosaically.

"I don't know," he muttered. "You--sometimes you look as though--"
Then he put his arms round her. "I love you," he said. "I'll be good
to you, Sara Lee, if you'll have me." He bent down and put his cheek
against hers. "If you'll only marry me, dear."

A woman has a way of thinking most clearly and lucidly when the man has
stopped thinking. With his arms about her Harvey could only feel. He
was trembling. As for Sara Lee, instantly two pictures flashed through
her mind, each distinct, each clear, almost photographic. One was of
Anna, in her tiny house down the street, dragged with a nursing baby.
The other was that one from a magazine of a boy dying on a battlefield
and crying "Mother!"

Two sorts of maternity--one quiet, peaceful, not always beautiful,
but the thing by which and to which she had been reared; the other
vicarious, of all the world.

"Don't you love me--that way?" he said, his cheek still against hers.

"I don't know."

"You don't know!"