The day before the wedding, little Mrs. George Dexter Tresslyn,
satisfactorily shorn of her appendix and on the rapid road to recovery
that is traveled only by the perfectly healthy of mankind, confided to her
doctor that the mystery of the daily bunch of roses was solved. They
represented the interest and attention of her ex-husband, and, while they
were unaccompanied by a single word from him, they also signified
devotion.
"Which means that he is still making love to you?" said Thorpe, with mock
severity.
"Clandestinely," said she, with a lovely blush and a curious softening of
her eyes. She was wondering how this big, strong friend of hers would take
the information, and how far she could go in her confidences without
adventuring upon forbidden territory. Would he close the gates in the wall
that guarded his own opinions of the common foe, or would he let her
inside long enough for a joint discussion of the condition that confronted
both of them: the Tresslyn nakedness? "He has been inquiring about me
twice a day by telephone, Doctor, and this morning he was down stairs. My
night nurse knows him by sight. He was here at half-past seven. That's
very early for George, believe me. This hospital is a long way from where
he lives. I would say that he got up at six or half-past, wouldn't you?"
"If he went to bed at all," said Thorpe, with a grim smile.
"Anyhow, it proves something, doesn't it?" she persisted.
"Obviously. He is still in love with you, if that's what you want me to
say."
"That's just what I wanted you to say," she cried, her eyes sparkling.
"Poor George! He's a dear, and I don't care who hears me say it. If he'd
had any kind of a chance at all we wouldn't be—Oh, well, what's the use
talking about it?" She sighed deeply.
Braden watched her flushed, drawn face with frowning eyes. He realised
that she had suffered long in silence, that her heart had been wrung in
the bitter stretches of a thousand nights despite the gay indifference of
the thousand days that lay between them. For nearly three years she had
kept alive the hungry thing that gnawed at her heart and would not be
denied. He was sorry for her. She was better than most of the women he
knew in one respect if in no other: she was steadfast. She had made a
bargain and it was not her fault that it was not binding. He had but
little pity for George Tresslyn. The little he had was due to the belief
that if the boy had been older he would have fought a better fight for the
girl. As she lay there now, propped up against the pillows, he could not
help contrasting her with the splendid, high-bred daughter of Constance
Tresslyn. That she was a high-minded, honest, God-fearing girl he could
not for an instant doubt, but that she lacked the—there is but one word
for it—_class_ of the Tresslyn women he could not but feel as well as see.
There was a distinct line between them, a line that it would take
generations to cross. Still, she was a loyal, warm-hearted enduring
creature, and by qualities such as these she mounted to a much higher
plane than Anne Tresslyn could ever hope to attain, despite her position
on the opposite side of the line. He had never seen George's wife in
anything but a blithe, confident mood; she was an unbeaten little warrior
who kept her colours flying in the face of a despot called Fate. In fact,
she was worthy of a better man than young Tresslyn, worthy of the steel of
a nobler foe than his mother.
He was eager to comfort her. "It is pretty fine of George, sending you
these flowers every day. I am getting a new light on him. Has he ever
suggested to you in any way the possibility of—of—well, you know what I
mean?"
"Fixing it up again between us?" she supplied, an eager light in her eyes.
"No, never, Dr. Thorpe. He has never spoken to me, never written a line to
me. That's fine of him too. He loves me, I'm sure of it, and he wants me,
but it _is_ fine of him not to bother me, now isn't it? He knows he could
drag me back into the muddle, he knows he could make a fool of me, and yet
he will not take that advantage of me."
"Would you go back to him if he asked you to do so?"
"I suppose so," she sighed. Then brightly: "So, you see, I shall refuse to
see him if he ever comes to plead. That's the only way. We must go our
separate ways, as decreed. I am his wife but I must not so far forget
myself as to think that he is my husband. I know, Dr. Thorpe, that if we
had been left alone, we could have managed somehow. He was young, but so
was I. I am not quite impossible, am I? Don't these friends of yours like
me, don't they find something worth while in me? If I were as common, as
undesirable as Mrs. Tresslyn would have me to be, why do people of your
kind like me,—take me up, as the saying is? I know that I don't really
belong, I know I'm not just what they are, but I'm not so awfully
hopeless, now am I? Isn't Mrs. Fenn a nice woman? Doesn't she go about in
the smart set?"
She appeared to be pleading with him. He smiled.
"Mrs. Fenn is a very nice woman and a very smart one," he said. "You have
many exceedingly nice women among your friends. So be of good cheer, if
that signifies anything to you." He was chaffing her in his most amiable
way.
"It signifies a lot," she said seriously. "By rights, I suppose, I should
have gone to the devil. That's what was expected of me, you know. When I
took all that money from Mrs. Tresslyn, it wasn't for the purpose of
beating my way to the devil as fast as I could. I took it for an entirely
different reason: to put myself where I could tell other people to go to
him if I felt so inclined. I took it so that I could make of myself, if
possible, the sort of woman that George Tresslyn might have married
without stirring up a row in the family. I've taken good care of all that
money. It is well invested. I manage to live and dress on the income.
Rather decent of me, isn't it? Surprisingly decent, you might say, eh?"
"Surprisingly," he agreed, smiling.
"What George Tresslyn needs, Dr. Thorpe, is something to work for,
something to make work an object to him. What has he got to work for now?
Nothing, absolutely nothing. He's merely keeping up appearances, and he'll
never get anywhere in God's world until he finds out that it's a waste of
time working for a living that's already provided for him."
Thorpe was impressed by this quaint philosophy. "Would you, in your
wisdom, mind telling me just what you think George would be capable of
doing in order to earn a living for two people instead of one?"
She looked at him in surprise. "Why, isn't he big and strong and hasn't he
a brain and a pair of hands? What more can a man require in this little
old age? A big, strapping fellow doesn't have to sit down and say 'What in
heaven's name am I to do with these things that God has given me?' Doesn't
a blacksmith earn enough for ten sometimes, and how about the carpenter,
the joiner and the man who brings the ice? Didn't I earn a living up to
the time I burnt my fingers and had to be pensioned for dishonourable
service? It didn't take much strength or intelligence to demonstrate
mustard, did it? And you sit there and ask me what George is capable of
doing! Why, he could do _anything_ if he had to."
"You are really a very wonderful person," said he, with conviction. "I
believe you could have made a man of George if you'd had the chance."
She looked down. "I suppose the world thinks I made him what he is now, so
what's the use speculating? Let's talk about you for awhile. Miss McKane
won't be back for a few minutes, so let's chat some more. Didn't I hear
you tell her yesterday that you expect to leave for London about the
first?"
"If you are up and about," said he.
She hesitated, a slight frown on her brow. "Do you know that you are pale
and tired-looking, Dr. Thorpe? Have you looked in the glass at yourself
lately?"
"Regularly," he said, forcing a smile. "I shave once a day, and I—"
"I'm serious. You don't look happy. You may confide in me, Doctor. I think
you ought to talk to some one about it. Are you still in love with Miss
Tresslyn? Is that what's taking the colour out—"
"I am not in love with Miss Tresslyn," he said, meeting her gaze steadily.
"That is all over. I will confess that I have been dreadfully hurt,
terribly shocked. A man doesn't get over such things easily or quickly. I
will not pretend that I am happy. So, if that explains my appearance to
you, Mrs. Tresslyn, we'll say no more about it."
Her eyes filled with tears. "Oh, I'm sorry if I've—if I've meddled,—if
I've been too—"
"Don't worry," he broke in quickly. "I don't in the least mind. In fact,
I'm glad you gave me the opportunity to say in so many words that I do not
love her. I've never said it before. I'm glad that I have said it. It
helps, after all."
"You'll be happy yet," she sniffled. "I know you will. The world is full
of good, noble women, and there's one somewhere who will make you glad
that this thing has happened to you. Now, we'll change the subject. Miss
McKane may pop in at any moment, you know. Have you any new patients?"
He smiled again. "No. You are my sole and only, Mrs. Fenn can't persuade
Rumsey to have a thing done to him, and Simmy Dodge refuses to break his
neck for scientific purposes, so I've given up hope. I shall take no more
cases. In a year I may come back from London and then I'll go snooping
about for nice little persons like you who—"
"Simmy Dodge says you are not living at your grandfather's house any
longer," she broke, irrelevantly.
"I am at a hotel," he said, and no more.
"I see," she said, frowning very darkly for her.
He studied her face for a moment, and then arose from the chair beside her
bed. "You may be interested to hear that while I am invited to attend the
wedding to-morrow afternoon I shall not be there," he said, divining her
thoughts.
"I didn't like to ask," she said. The nurse came into the room. "He says
I'm doing as well as could be expected, Miss McKane," she said glibly,
"and if nothing unforeseen happens I'll be dodging automobiles in Fifth
Avenue inside of two weeks. Good-bye, Doctor."
"Good-bye. I'll look in to-morrow—afternoon," he said.
* * * * *
The marriage of Anne Tresslyn and Templeton Thorpe took place at the home
of the bridegroom at four o'clock on the afternoon of the twenty-third. A
departure from the original plans was made imperative at the eleventh hour
by the fact that Mr. Thorpe had been quite ill during the night. His
condition was in no sense alarming, but the doctors announced that a
postponement of the wedding was unavoidable unless the ceremony could be
held in the Thorpe home instead of at Mrs. Tresslyn's as originally
planned. Moreover, the already heavily curtailed list of guests would have
to be narrowed to even smaller proportions. The presence of so many as the
score of selected guests might prove to be hazardous in view of the old
gentleman's state of nerves, not to say health. Mr. Thorpe was able to be
up and about with the aid of the imperturbable Wade, but he was
exceedingly irascible and hard to manage. He was annoyed with Braden. When
the strange illness came early in the night, he sent out for his grandson.
He wanted him to be there if anything serious was to result from the
stroke,—he persisted in calling it a stroke, scornfully describing his
attack as a "rush of blood to the head from a heart that had been squeezed
too severely by old Father Time." Braden was not to be found. What annoyed
Mr. Thorpe most was the young man's unaccountable disposition to desert
him in his hour of need. In his querulous tirade, he described his
grandson over and over again as an ingrate, a traitor, a good-for-nothing
without the slightest notion of what an obligation means.
He did not know, and was not to know for many days, that his grandson had
purposely left town with the determination not to return until the ill-
mated couple were well on their way to the Southland, where the ludicrous
honeymoon was to be spent. And so it was that the old family doctor had to
be called in to take charge of Mr. Thorpe in place of the youngster on
whom he had spent so much money and of whom he expected such great and
glorious things.
He would not listen to a word concerning a postponement. Miss Tresslyn was
called up on the telephone by Wade at eight o'clock in the morning, and
notified of the distressing situation. What was to be done? At first no
one seemed to know what _could_ be done, and there was a tremendous flurry
that for the time being threatened to deprive Mr. Thorpe of a mother-in-
law before the time set for her to actually become one. Doctors were
summoned to revive the prostrated Mrs. Tresslyn. She went all to pieces,
according to reports from the servants' hall. In an hour's time, however,
she was herself once more, and then it was discovered that a postponement
was the last thing in the world to be considered in a crisis of such
magnitude. Hasty notes were despatched hither and thither; caterers and
guests alike were shunted off with scant ceremony; chauffeurs were
commandeered and motors confiscated; everybody was rushing about in
systematic confusion, and no one paused to question the commands of the
distracted lady who rose sublimely to the situation. So promptly and
effectually was order substituted for chaos that when the clock in Mr.
Thorpe's drawing-room struck the hour of four, exactly ten people were
there and two of them were facing a minister of the gospel,—one in an arm
chair with pillows surrounding him, the other standing tall and slim and
as white as the driven snow beside him....
Late that night, Mr. George Tresslyn came upon Simmy Dodge in the buffet
at the Plaza.
"Well, you missed it," he said thickly. His high hat was set far back on
his head and his face was flushed.
"Come over here in the corner," said Simmy, with discernment, "and for
heaven's sake don't talk above a whisper."
"Whisper?" said George, annoyed. "What do I want to whisper for? I don't
want to whisper, Simmy. I never whisper. I hate to hear people whisper. I
refuse to whisper to anybody."
Simmy took him by the arm and led him to a table in a corner remote from
others that were occupied.
"Maybe you'd rather go for a drive in the Park," he said engagingly.
"Nonsense! I've been driven all day, Simmy. I don't want to be driven any
more. I'm tired, that's what's the matter with me. Dog-tired, understand?
Have a drink? Here, boy!"
"Thanks, George, I don't care for a drink. No, not for me, thank you.
Strictly on the wagon, you know. Better let it alone yourself. Take my
advice, George. You're not a drinking man and you can't stand it."
George glowered at him for a moment, and then let his eyes fall. "Guess
you're right, Simmy. I've had enough. Never mind, waiter. First time I've
been like this in a mighty long time, Simmy. But don't think I'm
celebrating, because I ain't. I'm drowning something, that's all." He was
almost in tears by this time. "I can't help thinking about her standin'
there beside that old—Oh, Lord! I can't talk about it."
"That's right," said Simmy, persuasively. "I wouldn't if I were you. Come
along with me. I'll walk home with you, George. A good night's rest will
put—"
"Rest? My God, Simmy, I'm never going to rest again, not even in my grave.
Say, do you know who I blame for all this business? Do you?"
"Sh!"
"I won't shoosh! I blame myself. I am to blame and no one else. If I'd
been any kind of a man I'd have put my foot down—just like that—and
stopped the thing. That's what I'd have done if I'd been a man, Simmy. And
instead of stoppin' it, do you know what I did? I went down there and
stood up with old Thorpe as his best man. Can you beat that? His best man!
My God! Wait a minute. See, he was sittin' just like you are—lean back a
little and drop your chin—and I was standing right here, see—on this side
of him. Just like this. And over here was Anne—oh, Lord! And here was
Katherine Browne,—best maid, you know,—I mean maid of honour. Standin'
just like this, d'you see? And then right in front here was the preacher.
Say, where do all these preachers come from? I've never seen that feller
in all my life, and still they say he's an old friend of the family. Fine
business for a preacher to be in, wasn't it? Fi-ine bus-i-ness! He ought
to have been ashamed of himself. By Gosh, come to think of it, I believe
he was worse than I. He might have got out of it if he'd tried. He looked
like a regular man, and I'm nothing but a fish-worm."
"Not so loud, George, for heaven's sake. You don't want all these men in
here to—"
"Right you are, Simmy, right you are. I'm one of the fellers that talks
louder than anybody else and thinks he's as big as George Washington
because he's got a bass voice." He lowered his voice to a hoarse, raucous
whisper and went on. "And mother stood over there, see,—right about where
that cuspidor is,—and looked at the preacher all the time. Watchin' to see
that he kept his face straight, I suppose. Couple of old rummies standin'
back there where that table is, all dressed up in Prince Alberts and
shaved within an inch of their lives. Lawyers, I heard afterwards. Old
Mrs. Browne and Doc. Bates stood just behind me. Now you have it, just as
it was. Curtains all down and electric lights going full blast. It
wouldn't have been so bad if the lights had been out. Couldn't have seen
old Tempy, for one thing, and Anne's face for another. I'll never forget
Anne's face." His own face was now as white as chalk and convulsed with
genuine emotion.
Simmy was troubled. There was that about George Tresslyn that suggested a
subsequent catastrophe. He was in no mood to be left to himself. There was
the despairing look of the man who kills in his eyes, but who kills only
himself.
"See here, George, let's drop it now. Don't go on like this. Come along,
do. Come to my rooms and I'll make you comfortable for the—"
But George was not through with his account of the wedding. He
straightened up and, gritting his teeth, went on with the story. "Then
there were the responses, Simmy,—the same that we had, Lutie and I,—just
the same, only they sounded queer and awful and strange to-day. Only young
people ought to get married, Simmy. It doesn't seem so rotten when young
people lie like that to each other. Before I really knew what had happened
the preacher had pronounced them husband and wife, and there I stood like
a block of marble and held my peace when he asked if any one knew of a
just cause why they shouldn't be joined in holy wedlock. I never even
opened my lips. Then everybody rushed up and congratulated Anne! And
kissed her, and made all sorts of horrible noises over her. And then what
do you think happened? Old Tempy up and practically ordered everybody out
of the house. Said he was tired and wanted to be left alone. 'Good-bye,'
he said, just like that, right in our faces—right in mother's face, and
the preacher's, and old Mrs. Browne's. You could have heard a pin drop.
'Good-bye,' that's what he said, and then, will you believe it, he turned
to one of the pie-faced lawyers and said to him: 'Will you turn over that
package to my wife, Mr. Hollenback?' and then he says to that man of his:
'Wade, be good enough to hand Mr. Tresslyn the little acknowledgment for
his services?' Then and there, that lawyer gave Anne a thick envelope and
Wade gave me a little box,—a little bit of a box that I wish I'd kept to
bury the old skinflint in. It would be just about his size. I had it in my
vest pocket for awhile. 'Wade, your arm,' says he, and then with what he
probably intended to be a sweet smile for Anne, he got to his feet and
went out of the room, holding his side and bending over just as if he was
having a devil of time to keep from laughing out loud. I heard the doctor
say something about a pain there, but I didn't pay much attention. What do
you think of that? Got right up and left his guests, his bride and
everybody standing there like a lot of goops. His bride, mind you. I'm
dead sure that so-called stroke of his was all a bluff. He just put one
over on us, that's all. Wasn't any more sick than I am. Didn't you hear
about the stroke? Stroke of luck, I'd call it. And say, what do you think
he gave me as a little acknowledgment for my services? Look! Feast your
eyes upon it!" He turned back the lapel of his coat and fumbled for a
moment before extracting from the cloth a very ordinary looking scarf-pin,
a small aqua-marine surrounded by a narrow rim of pearls. "Great, isn't
it? Magnificent tribute! You could get a dozen of 'em for fifty dollars.
That's what I got for being best man at my sister's funeral, and, by God,
it's more than I deserved at that. He had me sized up properly, I'll say
that for him."
He bowed his head dejectedly, his lips working in a sort of spasmodic
silence. Dodge eyed him with a curious, new-born commiseration. The boy's
self-abasement, his misery, his flouting of his own weakness were not
altogether the result of maudlin reaction. He presented a combination of
manliness and effectiveness that perplexed and irritated Simeon Dodge. He
did not want to feel sorry for him and yet he could not help doing so.
George's broad shoulders and splendid chest were heaving under the strain
of a genuine, real emotion. Drink was not responsible for his present
estimate of himself; it had merely opened the gates to expression.
Simmy's scrutiny took in the fine, powerful body of this incompetent
giant,—for he was a giant to Simmy,—and out of his appraisal grew a fresh
complaint against the Force that fashions men with such cruel
inconsistency. What would not he perform if he were fashioned like this
splendid being? Why had God given to George Tresslyn all this strength and
beauty, to waste and abuse, when He might have divided His gifts with a
kindlier hand? To what heights of attainment in all the enterprises of man
would not he have mounted if Nature had but given to him the shell that
George Tresslyn occupied? And why should Nature have put an incompetent,
useless dweller into such a splendid house when he would have got on just
as well or better perhaps in an insignificant body like his own?
Proportions were wrong, outrageously wrong, grieved Simmy as he studied
the man who despised the strength God had given him. And down in his
honest, despairing soul, Simmy Dodge was saying to himself that he would
cheerfully give all of his wealth, all of his intelligence, all of his
prospects, in exchange for a physical body like George Tresslyn's. He
would court poverty for the privilege of enjoying other triumphs along the
road to happiness.
"Why don't you say something?" demanded George, suddenly looking up. "Call
me whatever you please, Simmy; I'll not resent it. Hang it all, I'll let
you kick me if you want to. Wouldn't you like to, Simmy?"
"Lord love you, no, my boy," cried the other, reaching out and laying a
hand on George's shoulder. "See here, George, there's a great deal more to
you than you suspect. You've got everything that a man ought to have
except one thing, and you can get that if you make up your mind to go
after it."
"What's that?" said George, vaguely interested.
"Independence," said Simmy. "Do you know what I'd do if I had that body
and brain of yours?"
"Yes," said George promptly. "You'd go out and lick the world, Simmy,
because you're that kind of a feller. You've got character, you have.
You've got self-respect, and ideals, and nerve. I ought to have been put
into your body and you into mine."
Simmy winced. "Strike out for yourself, George. Be somebody. Buck up,
and—"
George sagged back into the chair as he gloomily interrupted the speaker.
"That's all very fine, Simmy, that sort of talk, but I'm not in the mood
to listen to it now. I wasn't through telling you about the wedding. Where
was I when I stopped? Oh, yes, the scarf-pin. Hey, waiter! Come here a
second."
A waiter approached. With great solemnity George arose and grasped him by
the shoulder, and a moment later had removed the nickel-plated badge from
the man's lapel. The waiter was tolerant. He grinned. It was what he was
expected to do under the circumstances. But he was astonished by the next
act of the tall young man in evening clothes. George proceeded to jam the
scarf-pin into the fellow's coat where the badge of service had rested the
instant before. Then, with Simmy looking on in disgust, he pinned the
waiter's badge upon his own coat. "There!" he said, with a sneer. "That is
supposed to make a gentleman of you, and this makes a man of me. On your
way, gentleman! I—"
"For heaven's sake, George," cried Simmy, arising. "Don't be an ass." He
took the tag from Tresslyn's coat and handed it back to the waiter. "Give
him the scarf-pin if you like, old man, but don't rob him of his badge of
honour. He earns an honest living with that thing, you know."
George sat down. He was suddenly abashed. "What an awful bounder you must
think I am, Simmy."
"Nonsense. You're a bit tight, that's all." He slipped the waiter a bank-
note and motioned him away. "Now, let's go home, George."
"Yes, sir; he turned and walked out of the room, leaving all of us
standing there," muttered George, with a mental leap backward. "I'll never
forget it, long as I live. He simply scorned the whole lot of us. I went
away as quickly as I could, but the others beat me to it. I left mother
and Anne there all alone, just wandering around the room as if they were
half-stunned. Never, never will I forget Anne's white, scared face, and
I've never seen mother so helpless, either. Anne gripped, that big
envelope so tight that it crumpled up into almost nothing. Mother took it
away from her and opened it. Nobody was there but us three. I shan't tell
you what was in the envelope. I'm not drunk enough for that."
"Never mind. It's immaterial, in any event." Simmy had called for his
check.
George's mind took a new twist. Suddenly he sprang to his feet. "By the
way, before I forget it, do you know where I can find Braden Thorpe?"
A black scowl disfigured his face. There was an ugly, ominous glare in his
fast clearing eyes. Simmy, coming no higher than his shoulder, linked his
arm through one of George's and started toward the door with him. He was
headed for the porters' entrance.
"He's out of town, George. Don't bother about Braden."
"I'm going to kill Brady Thorpe, Simmy," said George hoarsely. Simmy felt
the big right arm swell and become as rigid as steel.
"Don't talk like a fool," he whispered.
"He didn't act right by Anne," said George. "He's got to account to me.
He's—"
They were in the narrow hallway by this time. Simmy called to a porter.
"Get me a taxi, will you?"
"I say he didn't act right by Anne. It's his fault that she—Let go my arm,
Simmy!" He gave it a mighty wrench.
"All right," said Simmy, maintaining his equilibrium with some difficulty
after the jerk he had received. "Don't you want me to be your friend,
George?"
George glared at him, and then broke into a shamed, foolish laugh.
"Forgive me, Simmy. Of course, I want you as my friend. I depend upon
you."
"Then stop this talk about going after Braden. In heaven's name, you kid,
what has he done to you or Anne? He's the one who deserves sympathy and—"
"I've got it in for him because he's a coward and a skunk," explained
George, lowering his voice with praiseworthy consideration. "You see, it's
just this way, Simmy. He didn't do the right thing by Anne. He ought to
have come back here and _made_ her marry him. That's where he's to blame.
He ought to have gone right up to the house and grabbed her by the throat
and choked her till she gave in and went with him to a justice-of-the-
peace or something. He owed it to her, Simmy,—he was in duty bound to save
her. If he hadn't been a sneakin' coward, he'd have choked her till she
was half-dead and then she would have gone with him gladly. Women like a
brave man. They like to be choked and beaten and—"
Simmy laughed. "Do you call it bravery to choke a woman into submission,
and drag her off to—"
"I call it cowardice to give up the woman you love if she loves you," said
George. "I know what I'm talking about, too, because I'm one of the
sneakingest cowards on earth. What do you think of me, Simmy? What does
everybody think of me? Wouldn't call me a brave man, would you?"
"The cases are not parallel. Braden's case is different. He couldn't force
Anne to—"
"See here, Simmy," broke in George, wonderingly, "I hadn't noticed it
before, but, by giminy, I believe you're tipsy. You've been drinking,
Simmy. No sober man would talk as you do. When you sober up, you'll think
just as I do,—and that is that Brady Thorpe ought to have been a man when
he had the chance. He ought to have stuck his fist under Anne's nose and
said 'Come on, or I'll smash you,' and she'd have gone with him like a
little lamb, and she'd have loved him a hundred times more than she ever
loved him before. He didn't do the right thing by her, Simmy. He didn't,
curse him, and I'll never forgive him. I'm going to wring his neck, so
help me Moses. I've been a coward just as long as I intend to be. Take a
good look at me, Simmy. If you watch closely you may see me turning into a
man."
"Get in," said Simmy, pushing him toward the door of the taxi-cab. "A
little sleep is what you need."
"And say, there's another thing I've got to square up with Brady Thorpe,"
protested George, holding back. "He took Lutie up there to that beastly
hospital and slashed her open, curse him. A poor, helpless little girl
like that! Call that brave? Sticking a knife into Lutie? He's got to
settle with me for that, too."
And then Simmy understood.