[Illustration: Book Cover]
THE BUSINESS OF LIFE
Novels by Robert W. Chambers
The Business of Life
Blue-Bird Weather
Japonette
The Adventures of a Modest Man
The Danger Mark
Special Messenger
The Firing Line
The Younger Set
The Fighting Chance
Some Ladies in Haste
The Tree of Heaven
The Tracer of Lost Persons
A Young Man in a Hurry
Lorraine
Maids of Paradise
Ashes of Empire
The Red Republic
Outsiders
The Gay Rebellion
The Streets of Ascalon
The Common Law
Ailsa Paige
The Green Mouse
Iole
The Reckoning
The Maid-at-arms
Cardigan
The Haunts of Men
The Mystery of Choice
The Cambric Mask
The Maker of Moons
The King in Yellow
In Search of the Unknown
The Conspirators
A King and a Few Dukes
In the Quarter
[Illustration: "'I--yes. Yes--I'll be ready----'" [Page 317]]
_The_ BUSINESS OF LIFE
BY
ROBERT W. CHAMBERS
[Illustration]
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
CHARLES DANA GIBSON
NEW YORK AND LONDON
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1913
COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY
ROBERT W. CHAMBERS
Copyright, 1912, by the INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE COMPANY
TO
ELSIE CHAMBERS
"Il est des noeuds secrets, il est des sympathies
Dont par le doux rapport les Ames assorties
S'attachent l'une à l'autre et se laissent piquer
Par ces je ne sais quoi qu'on ne peut expliquer."
RODOGUNE.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
"'I--yes. Yes--I'll be ready----'" _Frontispiece_
"A lady to see you, sir'" 3
"Now and then she ... halted on tip-toe to lift some slitted
visor" 51
"She took it ... then read aloud the device in verse" 57
"'Are business and friendship incompatible?'" 71
"'There are nice men, too'" 79
"And he sat thinking of Jacqueline Nevers" 93
"She turned leisurely.... 'Did you say anything recently,
Mr. Desboro?'" 116
"Desboro stood staring down at the magic picture. Mrs.
Clydesdale, too, had risen" 151
"'Which is the real pleasure?' she asked" 159
"'The thing to do,' he said ... 'is for us both to keep
very busy'" 161
"'I--I beg your pardon,' said Jacqueline" 181
"There was, for a moment, an unconscious and unwonted grace
in his manner" 197
"All the men there had yielded to the delicate attraction
of her" 205
"In all the curious eyes turned toward her he saw admiration,
willing or conceded" 209
"She lost herself in a dreamy Bavarian folk-song" 219
"Cheer after cheer rang through the hallway" 251
"'Business is kinder to men than women sometimes believe'" 273
"'Be careful,' he said ... 'People are watching us'" 277
"Mr. Waudle gaped at her like a fat and expiring fish; the
poet ... said not a word" 345
"'My dear!' she exclaimed. 'What a perfectly charming office!'" 358
"She turned ... looked back, hesitated" 379
"'_That's_ how hungry I am, Jim. I warned you'" 385
"'It was rather odd, wasn't it, Jim?'" 395
"'Why don't you ask your--wife?'" 411
"'I do not believe you,' she said between her teeth" 419
"What was she to do? She had gone half mad with fear" 427
"'Jacqueline--my wife--is the result of a different training'" 441
"In the rose dusk of the drawn curtains he stood beside it" 445
"'Now,' she said, leaning forward ... 'what is the meaning
of this?'" 455
"'You have no further interest in me, have you?'" 479
"'I--I have never thought mercilessly'" 487
"And, as she rose, he was still figuring" 499
THE BUSINESS OF LIFE
CHAPTER I
[Illustration: "'A lady to see you, sir'"]
"A lady to see you, sir," said Farris.
Desboro, lying on the sofa, glanced up over his book.
"A _lady_?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, who is she, Farris?"
"She refused her name, Mr. James."
Desboro swung his legs to the carpet and sat up.
"What kind of lady is she?" he asked; "a perfect one, or the real
thing?"
"I don't know, sir. It's hard to tell these days; one dresses like
t'other."
Desboro laid aside his book and arose leisurely.
"Where is she?"
"In the reception room, sir."
"Did you ever before see her?"
"I don't know, Mr. James--what with her veil and furs----"
"How did she come?"
"In one of Ransom's hacks from the station. There's a trunk outside,
too."
"What the devil----"
"Yes, sir. That's what made me go to the door. Nobody rang. I heard the
stompin' and the noise; and I went out, and she just kind of walked in.
Yes, sir."
"Is the hack out there yet?"
"No, sir. Ransom's man he left the trunk and drove off. I heard her tell
him he could go."
Desboro remained silent for a few moments, looking hard at the
fireplace; then he tossed his cigarette onto the embers, dropped the
amber mouthpiece into the pocket of his dinner jacket, dismissed Farris
with a pleasant nod, and walked very slowly along the hall, as though in
no haste to meet his visitor before he could come to some conclusion
concerning her identity. For among all the women he had known,
intimately or otherwise, he could remember very few reckless enough, or
brainless enough, or sufficiently self-assured, to pay him an impromptu
visit in the country at such an hour of the night.
The reception room, with its early Victorian furniture, appeared to be
empty, at first glance; but the next instant he saw somebody in the
curtained embrasure of a window--a shadowy figure which did not seem
inclined to leave obscurity--the figure of a woman in veil and furs, her
face half hidden in her muff.
He hesitated a second, then walked toward her; and she lifted her head.
"Elena!" he said, astonished.
"Are you angry, Jim?"
"What are you doing here?"
"I didn't know what to do," said Mrs. Clydesdale, wearily, "and it came
over me all at once that I couldn't stand him any longer."
"What has he done?"
"Nothing. He's just the same--never quite sober--always following me
about, always under foot, always grinning--and buying sixteenth century
enamels--and--I can't stand it! I----" Her voice broke.
"Come into the library," he said curtly.
She found her handkerchief, held it tightly against her eyes, and
reached out toward him to be guided.
In the library fireplace a few embers were still alive. He laid a log
across the coals and used the bellows until the flames started. After
that he dusted his hands, lighted a cigarette, and stood for a moment
watching the mounting blaze.
She had cast aside her furs and was resting on one elbow, twisting her
handkerchief to rags between her gloved hands, and staring at the fire.
One or two tears gathered and fell.
"He'll divorce me now, won't he?" she asked unsteadily.
"Why?"
"Because nobody would believe the truth--after this."
She rested her pretty cheek against the cushion and gazed at the fire
with wide eyes still tearfully brilliant.
"You have me on your hands," she said. "What are you going to do with
me?"
"Send you home."
"You can't. I've disgraced myself. Won't you stand by me, Jim?"
"I can't stand by you if I let you stay here."
"Why not?"
"Because that would be destroying you."
"Are you going to send me away?"
"Certainly."
"Where are you going to send me?"
"Home."
"Home!" she repeated, beginning to cry again. "Why do you call his house
'home'? It's no more my home than he is my husband----"
"He _is_ your husband! What do you mean by talking this way?"
"He _isn't_ my husband. I told him I didn't care for him when he asked
me to marry him. He only grinned. It was a perfectly cold-blooded
bargain. I didn't sell him _everything_!"
"You married him."
"Partly."
"What!"
She flushed crimson.
"I sold him the right to call me his wife and to--to make me so if I
ever came to--care for him. That was the bargain--if you've got to know.
The clergy did their part----"
"Do you mean----"
"Yes!" she said, exasperated. "I mean that it is no marriage, in spite
of law and clergy. And it never will be, because I hate him!"
Desboro looked at her in utter contempt.
"Do you know," he said, "what a rotten thing you have done?"
"Rotten!"
"Do you think it admirable?"
"I didn't sell myself wholesale. It might have been worse."
"You are wrong. Nothing worse could have happened."
"Then I don't care what else happens to me," she said, drawing off her
gloves and unpinning her hat. "I shall not go back to him."
"You can't stay here."
"I will," she said excitedly. "I'm going to break with him--whether or
not I can count on your loyalty to me----" Her voice broke childishly,
and she bowed her head.
He caught his lip between his teeth for a moment. Then he said
savagely:
"You ought not to have come here. There isn't one single thing to excuse
it. Besides, you have just reminded me of my loyalty to you. Can't you
understand that that includes your husband? Also, it isn't in me to
forget that I once asked you to be my wife. Do you think I'd let you
stand for anything less after that? Do you think I'm going to blacken my
own face? I never asked any other woman to marry me, and this settles
it--I never will! You've finished yourself and your sex for me!"
She was crying now, her head in her hands, and the bronze-red hair
dishevelled, sagging between her long, white fingers.
He remained aloof, knowing her, and always afraid of her and of himself
together--a very deadly combination for mischief. And she remained bowed
in the attitude of despair, her lithe young body shaken.
His was naturally a lightly irresponsible disposition, and it came very
easily for him to console beauty in distress--or out of it, for that
matter. Why he was now so fastidious with his conscience in regard to
Mrs. Clydesdale he himself scarcely understood, except that he had once
asked her to marry him; and that he knew her husband. These two facts
seemed to keep him steady. Also, he rather liked her burly husband; and
he had almost recovered from the very real pangs which had pierced him
when she suddenly flung him over and married Clydesdale's millions.
One of the logs had burned out. He rose to replace it with another. When
he returned to the sofa, she looked up at him so pitifully that he bent
over and caressed her hair. And she put one arm around his neck, crying,
uncomforted.
"It won't do," he said; "it won't do. And you know it won't, don't you?
This whole business is dead wrong--dead rotten. But you mustn't cry, do
you hear? Don't be frightened. If there's trouble, I'll stand by you, of
course. Hush, dear, the house is full of servants. Loosen your arms,
Elena! It isn't a square deal to your husband--or to you, or even to me.
Unless people have an even chance with me--men or women--there's nothing
dangerous about me. I never dealt with any man whose eyes were not wide
open--nor with any woman, either. Cary's are shut; yours are blinded."
She sprang up and walked to the fire and stood there, her hands
nervously clenching and unclenching.
"When I tell you that my eyes _are_ wide open--that I don't care what I
do----"
"But your husband's eyes are not open!"
"They ought to be. I left a note saying where I was going--that rather
than be his wife I'd prefer to be your----"
"Stop! You don't know what you're talking about--you little idiot!" he
broke out, furious. "The very words you use don't mean anything to
you--except that you've read them in some fool's novel, or heard them on
a degenerate stage----"
"My words will mean something to _him_, if I can make them!" she
retorted hysterically, "--and if you really care for me----"
Through the throbbing silence Desboro seemed to see Clydesdale, bulky,
partly sober, with his eternal grin and permanently-flushed skin,
rambling about among his porcelains and enamels and jades and ivories,
like a drugged elephant in a bric-a-brac shop. And yet, there had
always been a certain kindly harmlessness and good nature about him that
had always appealed to men.
He said, incredulously: "Did you write to him what you have just said to
me?"
"Yes."
"You actually left such a note for him?"
"Yes, I did."
The silence lasted long enough for her to become uneasy. Again and again
she lifted her tear-swollen face to look at him, where he stood before
the fire, but he did not even glance at her; and at last she murmured
his name, and he turned.
"I guess you've done for us both," he said. "You're probably right;
nobody would believe the truth after this."
She began to cry again silently.
He said: "You never gave your husband a chance. He was in love with you
and you never gave him a chance. And you're giving yourself none, now.
And as for me"--he laughed unpleasantly--"well, I'll leave it to you,
Elena."
"I--I thought--if I burned my bridges and came to you----"
"What _did_ you think?"
"That you'd stand by me, Jim."
"Have I any other choice?" he asked, with a laugh. "We seem to be a
properly damned couple."
"Do--do you care for any other woman?"
"No."
"Then--then----"
"Oh, I am quite free to stand the consequences with you."
"Will you?"
"Can we escape them?"
"_You_ could."
"I'm not in the habit of leaving a sinking ship," he said curtly.
"Then--you will marry me--when----" She stopped short and turned very
white. After a moment the doorbell rang again.
Desboro glanced at the clock, then shrugged.
"Wh--who is it?" she faltered.
"It's probably somebody after you, Elena."
"It _can't_ be. He wouldn't come, would he?"
The bell sounded again.
"What are you going to do?" she breathed.
"Do? Let him in."
"Who do you think it is?"
"Your husband, of course."
"Then--why are you going to let him in?"
"To talk it over with him."
"But--but I don't know what he'll do. I don't know him, I tell you. What
do I know about him--except that he's big and red? How do I know what
might be hidden behind that fixed grin of his?"
"Well, we'll find out in a minute or two," said Desboro coolly.
"Jim! You _must_ stand by me now!"
"I've done it so far, haven't I? You needn't worry."
"You won't let him take me back! He can't, can he?"
"Not if you refuse to go. But you won't refuse--if he's man enough to
ask you to return."
"But--suppose he won't ask me to go back?"
"In that case I'll stand for what you've done. I'll marry you if he
means to disgrace you. Now let's see what he does mean."
She caught his sleeve as he passed her, then let it go. The steady
ringing of the bell was confusing and terrifying her, and she glanced
about her like a trapped creature, listening to the distant jingling of
chains and the click of bolts as Desboro undid the outer door.
Silence, then a far sound in the hall, footsteps coming nearer, nearer;
and she dropped stiffly on the sofa as Desboro entered, followed by Cary
Clydesdale in fur motor cap, coat and steaming goggles.
Desboro motioned her husband to a chair, but the man stood looking at
his wife through his goggles, with a silly, fixed grin stamped on his
features. Then he drew off the goggles and one fur gauntlet, fumbled in
his overcoat, produced the crumpled note which she had left for him,
laid it on the table between them, and sat down heavily, filling the
leather armchair with his bulk. His bare red hand steamed. After a
moment's silence, he pointed at the note.
"Well," she said, with an effort, "what of it! It's true--what this
letter says."
"It isn't true yet, is it?" asked Clydesdale simply.
"What do you mean?"
But Desboro understood him, and answered for her with a calm shake of
his head. Then the wife understood, too, and the deep colour dyed her
skin from throat to brow.
"Why do you come here--after reading that?" She pointed at the letter.
"Didn't you read it?"
Clydesdale passed his hand slowly over his perplexed eyes.
"I came to take you home. The car is here."
"Didn't you understand what I wrote? Isn't it plain enough?" she
demanded excitedly.
"No. You'd better get ready, Elena."
"Is that as much of a man as you are--when I tell you I'd rather be Mr.
Desboro's----"
Something behind the fixed grin on her husband's face made her hesitate
and falter. Then he swung heavily around and looked at Desboro.
"How much are you in this, anyway?" he asked, still grinning.
"Do you expect an answer?"
"I think I'll get one."
"I think you won't get one out of me."
"Oh. So you're at the bottom of it all, are you?"
"No doubt. A woman doesn't do such a thing unpersuaded. If you don't
know enough to look after your own wife, there are plenty of men who'll
apply for the job--as I did."
"You're a very rotten scoundrel, aren't you?" said Clydesdale, grinning.
"Oh, so-so."
Clydesdale sat very still, his grin unchanged, and Desboro looked him
over coolly.
"Now, what do you want to do? You and Mrs. Clydesdale can remain here
to-night if you wish. There are plenty of bedrooms----"
Clydesdale rose, bulking huge and menacing in his furs; but Desboro,
sitting on the edge of the table, continued to swing one foot gently,
smiling at danger.
And Clydesdale hesitated, then veered around toward his wife, with the
heavy movement of a perplexed and tortured bear.
"Get your furs on," he said, in a dull voice.
"Do you wish me to go home?"
"Get your furs on!"
"Do you wish me to go home, Cary?"
"Yes. Good God! What do you suppose I came here for?"
She walked over to Desboro and held out her hand:
"No wonder women like you. Good-bye--and if I come again--may I remain?"
"Don't come," he said, smiling, and holding her coat for her.
Clydesdale strode forward, took the fur garment from Desboro's hands,
and held it open. His wife looked up at him, shrugged her shoulders, and
suffered him to invest her with the coat.
After a moment Desboro said:
"Clydesdale, I am not your enemy. I wish you good luck."
"You go to hell," said Clydesdale thickly.
Mrs. Clydesdale moved toward the door, her husband on one side, Desboro
on the other, and so, along the hall in silence, and out to the porch,
where the glare of the acetylenes lighted up the frozen drive.
"It feels like rain," observed Desboro. "Not a very gay outlook for
Christmas. All the same, I wish you a happy one, Elena. And, really, I
believe you could have it if you cared to."
"Thank you, Jim. You have been mistakenly kind to me. I am afraid you
will have to be crueller some day. Good-bye--till then."
Clydesdale had descended to the drive and was conferring with the
chauffeur. Now he turned and looked up at his wife. She went down the
steps beside Desboro, and he nodded good-night. Clydesdale put her into
the limousine and then got in after her.
A few moments later the red tail-lamp of the motor disappeared among the
trees bordering the drive, and Desboro turned and walked back into the
house.
"That," he said aloud to himself, "settles the damned species for me!
Let the next one look out for herself!"
He sauntered back into the library. The letter that she had left for her
husband still lay on the table, apparently forgotten.
"A fine specimen of logic," he said. "She doesn't get on with him, so
she decides to use Jim to jimmy the lock of wedlock! A white man can
understand the Orientals better."
He glanced at the clock, and decided that there was no sense in going to
bed, so he composed himself on the haircloth sofa once more, lighted a
cigarette, and began to read, coolly using the note she had left, as a
bookmark.
It was dawn before he closed the book and went away to bathe and change
his attire.
While breakfasting he glanced out and saw that it had begun to rain. A
green Christmas for day after to-morrow! And, thinking of Christmas, he
thought of a girl he knew who usually wore blue, and what sort of a gift
he had better send her when he went to the city that morning.
But he didn't go. He called up a jeweler and gave directions what to
send and where to send it.
Then, listless, depressed, he idled about the great house, putting off
instinctively the paramount issue--the necessary investigation of his
finances. But he had evaded it too long to attempt it lightly now. It
was only a question of days before he'd have to take up in deadly
earnest the question of how to pay his debts. He knew it; and it made
him yawn with disgust.
After luncheon he wrote a letter to one Jean Louis Nevers, a New York
dealer in antiques, saying that he would drop in some day after
Christmas to consult Mr. Nevers on a matter of private business.
And that is as far as he got with his very vague plan for paying off an
accumulation of debts which, at last, were seriously annoying him.
The remainder of the day he spent tramping about the woods of
Westchester with a pack of nondescript dogs belonging to him. He liked
to walk in the rain; he liked his mongrels.
In the evening he resumed his attitude of unstudied elegance on the
sofa, also his book, using Mrs. Clydesdale's note again to mark his
place.
Mrs. Quant ventured to knock, bringing some "magic drops," which he
smilingly refused. Farris announced dinner, and he dined as usual,
surrounded by dogs and cats, all very cordial toward the master of
Silverwood, who was unvaryingly so just and so kind to them.
After dinner he lighted a pipe, thought idly of the girl in blue, hoped
she'd like his gift of aquamarines, and picked up his book again,
yawning.
He had had about enough of Silverwood, and he was realising it. He had
had more than enough of women, too.
The next day, riding one of his weedy hunters over Silverwood estate, he
encountered the daughter of a neighbor, an old playmate of his when
summer days were half a year long, and yesterdays immediately became
embedded in the middle of the middle ages.
She was riding a fretful, handsome Kentucky three-year-old, and sitting
nonchalantly to his exasperating and jiggling gait.
The girl was one Daisy Hammerton--the sort men call "square" and
"white," and a "good fellow"; but she was softly rounded and dark, and
very feminine.
She bade him good morning in a friendly voice; and her voice and manner
might well have been different, for Desboro had not behaved very civilly
toward her or toward her family, or to any of his Westchester neighbors
for that matter; and the rumours of his behaviour in New York were
anything but pleasant to a young girl's ears. So her cordiality was the
more to her credit.
He made rather shame-faced inquiries about her and her parents, but she
lightly put him at his ease, and they turned into the woods together on
the old and unembarrassed terms of comradeship.
"Captain Herrendene is back. Did you know it?" she asked.
"Nice old bird," commented Desboro. "I must look him up. Where did he
come from--Luzon?"
"Yes. He wrote us. Why don't you ask him up for the skating, Jim?"
"What skating?" said Desboro, with a laugh. "It will be a green
Christmas, Daisy--it's going to rain again. Besides," he added, "I
shan't be here much longer."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
He reddened. "You always were the sweetest thing in Westchester. Fancy
your being sorry that I'm going back to town when I've never once ridden
over to see you as long as I've been here!"
She laughed. "We've known each other too long to let such things make
any real difference. But you _have_ been a trifle negligent."
"Daisy, dear, I'm that way in everything. If anybody asked me to name
the one person I would not neglect, I'd name you. But you see what
happens--even to you! I don't know--I don't seem to have any character.
I don't know what's the matter with me----"
"I'm afraid that you have no beliefs, Jim."
"How can I have any when the world is so rotten after nineteen hundred
years of Christianity?"
"I have not found it rotten."
"No, because you live in a clean and wholesome circle."
"Why don't you, too? You can live where you please, can't you?"
He laughed and waved his hand toward the horizon.
"You know what the Desboros have always been. You needn't pretend you
don't. All Westchester has it in for us. But relief is in sight," he
added, with mock seriousness. "I'm the last of 'em, and your children,
Daisy, won't have to endure the morally painful necessity of tolerating
anybody of my name in the county."
She smiled: "Jim, you could be so nice if you only would."
"What! With no beliefs?"
"They're so easily acquired."
"Not in New York town, Daisy."
"Perhaps not among the people you affect. But such people really count
for so little--they are only a small but noisy section of a vast and
quiet and wholesome community. And the noise and cynicism are both based
on idleness, Jim. Nobody who is busy is destitute of beliefs. Nobody who
is responsible can avoid ideals."
"Quite right," he said. "I am idle and irresponsible. But, Daisy, it's
as much part of me as are my legs and arms, and head and body. I am not
stupid; I have plenty of mental resources; I am never bored; I enjoy my
drift through life in an empty tub as much as the man who pulls
furiously through it in a rowboat loaded with ambitions, ballasted with
brightly moral resolves, and buffeted by the cross seas of duty and
conscience. That's rather neat, isn't it?"
"You can't drift safely very long without ballast," said the girl,
smiling.
"Watch me."
She did not answer that she had been watching him for the last few
years, or tell him how it had hurt her to hear his name linked with the
gossip of fashionably vapid doings among idle and vapid people. For his
had been an inheritance of ability and culture, and the leisure to
develop both. Out of idleness and easy virtue had at last emerged three
generations of Desboros full of energy and almost ruthless ability--his
great-grandfather, grandfather and father--but he, the fourth
generation, was throwing back into the melting pot all that his father
and grandfathers had carried from it--even the material part of it. Land
and fortune, were beginning to disappear, together with the sturdy
mental and moral qualities of a race that had almost overcome its
vicious origin under the vicious Stuarts. Only the physical stamina as
yet seemed to remain intact; for Desboro was good to look upon.
"An odd thing happened the other night--or, rather, early in the
morning," she said. "We were awakened by a hammering at the door and a
horn blowing--and guess who it was?"
"Not Gabriel--though you look immortally angelic to-day----"
"Thank you, Jim. No; it was Cary and Elena Clydesdale, saying that their
car had broken down. What a ridiculous hour to be motoring! Elena was
half dead with the cold, too. It seems they'd been to a party somewhere
and were foolish enough to try to motor back to town. They stopped with
us and took the noon train to town. Elena told me to give you her love;
that's what reminded me."
"Give her mine when you see her," he said pleasantly.
* * * * *
When he returned to his house he sat down with a notion of trying to
bring order out of the chaos into which his affairs had tumbled. But the
mere sight of his desk, choked with unanswered letters and unpaid bills,
sickened him, and he threw himself on the sofa and picked up his book,
determined to rid himself of Silverwood House and all its curious,
astonishing and costly contents.
"Tell Riley to be on hand Monday," he said to Mrs. Quant that evening.
"I want the cases in the wing rooms and the stuff in the armoury cleaned
up, because I expect a Mr. Nevers to come here and recatalogue the
entire collection next week."
"Will you be at home, Mr. James?" she asked anxiously.
"No. I'm going South, duck-shooting. See that Mr. Nevers is comfortable
if he chooses to remain here; for it will take him a week or two to do
his work in the armoury, I suppose. So you'll have to start both
furnaces to-morrow, and keep open fires going, or the man will freeze
solid. You understand, don't you?"
"Yes, sir. And if you are going away, Mr. James, I could pack a little
bottle of 'magic drops'----"
"By all means," he said, with good-humoured resignation.
He spent the evening fussing over his guns and ammunition, determined to
go to New York in the morning. But he didn't; indecision had become a
habit; he knew it, wondered a little at himself for his lack of
decision.
He was deadly weary of Silverwood, but too lazy to leave; and it made
him think of the laziest dog on record, who yelped all day because he
had sat down on a tack and was too lazy to get up.
So it was not until the middle of Christmas week that Desboro summoned
up sufficient energy to start for New York. And when at last he was on
the train, he made up his mind that he wouldn't return to Silverwood in
a hurry.
But that plan was one of the mice-like plans men make so confidently
under the eternal skies.