O woman, woman!
At the bottom of everything! History is full of cruel tragedies caused
by the lethal sex.
Who lost Mark Antony the world? A woman. Who let Samson in so
atrociously? Woman again. Why did Bill Bailey leave home? Once more,
because of a woman. And here was I, Jerry Garnet, harmless,
well-meaning writer of minor novels, going through the same old mill.
I cursed Jane Muspratt. What chance had I with Phyllis now? Could I
hope to win over the professor again? I cursed Jane Muspratt for the
second time.
My thoughts wandered to Mr. Harry Hawk. The villain! The scoundrel!
What business had he to betray me? Well, I could settle with him. The
man who lays a hand upon a woman, save in the way of kindness, is
justly disliked by society; so the woman Muspratt, culpable as she
was, was safe from me. But what of the man Hawk? There no such
considerations swayed me. I would interview the man Hawk. I would give
him the most hectic ten minutes of his career. I would say things to
him the recollection of which would make him start up shrieking in his
bed in the small hours of the night. I would arise, and be a man and
slay him--take him grossly, full of bread, with all his crimes,
broad-blown, as flush as May; at gaming, swearing, or about some act
that had no relish of salvation in it.
The demon!
My life--ruined. My future--gray and blank. My heart--shattered. And
why? Because of the scoundrel--Hawk.
Phyllis would meet me in the village, on the Cob, on the links, and
pass by as if I were the invisible man. And why? Because of the
reptile--Hawk. The worm--Hawk. The varlet--Hawk.