If Mason had been in the _jeunesse dorée_ he must now have gone to
Monte Carlo to buck the tiger or to India to shoot him.
As it was, he smoked all night and turned up at the office half an hour
ahead of time in a voluble, erratic mood, brought about by suppressing
so much excitement within himself. If he had known how to tell his
troubles to a friend over a glass of beer he might have had an easier
time of it in his life. But he wasn't that sort. He took things hard
and kept them in.
He decided that the best thing to do with his sentiment for Georgia was
to strangle it. Whenever he caught himself thinking of her, which
would certainly be often at first, he must turn his mind away. He must
avoid seeing her; if they met accidentally he would give no further
sign than a curt nod.
He remembered the farmers used to say that there was one thing to do
with Canada thistles--keep them under, never let the sun shine on them.
His love for this other man's wife was like a thistle. He must keep it
under, never let the sun shine on it.
He did it thoroughly. He nodded to her in the most indifferent way in
the world when they happened to meet, but he found no occasion to stop
at her desk to chat an instant. Two weeks of his change of manner
began to pique her. He was acting in a rather absurd way, she thought.
After all they weren't lovers who had quarreled, but simply
acquaintances, friends after a fashion, fellow workers. Why shouldn't
they continue to be friends? It would be amusing to have some one
besides the family and the girls to talk to.
She would not let him treat her in this stiff way any longer, just
because she had had the bad luck to marry a bad man years before. What
rubbish that was. And what self-consciousness on his part. Men had a
very guilty way of looking at things.
They met quite or almost quite by accident in front of the office
building during the noon hour of the following day. He was about to
pass without stopping.
"How do you do, Mr. Stevens?" Her voice was quite distinct.