David adopted a matter-of-fact tone. "I can't deny that it'll come in
handy, just now," he remarked. "At the present price of clothing, and
with my personal exchequer in its depleted state--"
"Why," she broke in, "has anything happened? Your mother--?"
"Cut off," said David briefly.
"She's cut you off? On my account? Oh--"
"No. I've cut her off. Temporarily. She doesn't want me to work. I'm
working. On a newspaper."
"That's good," said the girl warmly. "Let's sit down."
They sat down. Each, however, found it curiously hard to begin again.
Mary was aching to thank him, but had a dreadful fear that if she tried
to, she would cry. She didn't want to cry. She had a feeling that crying
would be a highly unstrategic procedure leading to possible alarming
developments. Why didn't David say something? Finally he did make a
beginning.
"Mayme."
"No: not 'Mayme' any more."
He flushed to his temples. "I beg your pardon, Miss Courtenay."
"Nonsense!" she said softly. "Mary. I've discarded the 'Mayme' long
ago."
"Mary," he repeated in a tone of musing content.
"Buddy."
He caught his breath. "A few thousand of the best guys in the world," he
said, "call a fellow that. And every time they said it, it made my heart
ache with longing to hear it in your voice."
"You're a queer Buddy," returned the girl, not quite steadily.
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