The memory of Meta Beggs was woven like a bright thread through the
monotonous texture of the days which immediately followed. She was never
entirely out of his thoughts; she stirred him out of all proportion to any
assignable cause; she irritated him. He remembered that she said she made
men "mad." He recalled how ridiculous he had felt as he had said, "Good
night." He wished to repay her for that injury to his self-esteem.
At the same time, curiously, he was more patient with Lettice, he had a
more ready sympathy for her intangible fancies. Perhaps for the first time
he enjoyed sitting quietly on the porch of his house with her and General
Jackson. He sat answering her endless queries, fears, assenting
half-absently to her projections, with the thought of Meta Beggs at the
back of his mind. He wanted to be as nice as possible to Lettice. Suddenly
she seemed a little removed from him, from the world in general, the world
of the emotions and ideas that centered about the school-teacher.
Lettice was--superior; he recognized it pridefully. Behind her temporary,
rational vagaries there was a quality of steadfastness. It was clear to
him now from its contrast to his own devious mind. But he found a sharp
pleasure in the mental image of the Beggs woman. He recalled the burning
sensation that had lingered in his palm from the touch of her hand, the
pressure of her shoulder against his as they had drawn back from the
vision of those below.
He went early to the camp meeting on the Saturday appointed.