I know you have
been through horrible things. No, Barry, don't. You awful man," for his
hands were moving toward her again. "You must remember where you are.
Look at all these people staring at us."
"People," he said, as if in a daze. "What difference do they make? Oh,
Phyllis, you are so wonderfully lovely. I can't believe it's you, but
it is, it is! I know your eyes. Are you glad to see me?" he asked shyly,
his hungry eyes upon her face.
"Oh, Barry," she whispered, the warm flush rising again in her cheeks,
"can't you see? Can't you see? But what am I thinking about? Come and
see mamma, and there's another dear friend and admirer of yours with
her."
"Who? Not Paula?"
"No, not Paula," she said, with a subtle change in her voice. "Come and
see!"
She took his arm and brought him back to a motor standing at the theatre
entrance.
"Oh, mamma, I have had such a race," she cried excitedly, "and I have
captured him. Barry, my mother."
Barry took the offered hand, and gazed earnestly into the sad brown eyes
that searched his in return.
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