Part 33 (1/2)
”I want her,” he repeated. ”I want her.”
”You'd be ashamed if you had her as a wife--wouldn't you?”
He was silent.
”She isn't a _lady_.”
”I don't know,” replied he.
”She hasn't any sense. A low sort of cunning, yes. But not brains--not enough to hold you.”
”I don't know,” replied he. ”She's got enough for a woman. And--I _want_ her.”
”She isn't to be compared with Josephine.”
”But I don't want Josephine. I want _her_.”
”But which do you want to _marry_?--to bring forward as your wife?--to spend your life with?”
”I know. I'm a mad fool. But, Urse, I can't help it.” He stood up suddenly. ”I've used every weapon I've got. Even pride--and it skulked away. My sense of humor--and it weakened. My will--and it snapped.”
”Is she so wonderful?”
”She is so--elusive. I can't understand her--I can't touch her. I can't find her. She keeps me going like a man chasing an echo.”
”Like a man chasing an echo,” repeated Ursula reflectively. ”I understand. It is maddening. She must be clever--in her way.”
”Or very simple. G.o.d knows which; I don't--and sometimes I think she doesn't, either.” He made a gesture of dismissal. ”Well, it's finished.
I must pull myself together--or try to.”
”You will,” said his sister confidently. ”A fortnight from now you'll be laughing at yourself.”
”I am now. I have been all along. But--it does no good.”
She had to go and dress. But she could not leave until she had tried to make him comfortable. He was drinking brandy and soda and staring at his feet which were stretched straight out toward the fire. ”Where's your sense of humor?” she demanded. ”Throw yourself on your sense of humor.
It's a friend that sticks when all others fail.”
”It's my only hope,” he said with a grim smile. ”I can see myself. No wonder she despises me.”
”Despises you?” scoffed Ursula. ”A _woman_ despise _you_! She's crazy about you, I'll bet anything you like. Before you're through with this you'll find out I'm right. And then--you'll have no use for her.”
”She despises me.”
”Well--what of it? Really, Fred, it irritates me to see you absolutely unlike yourself. Why, you're as broken-spirited as a henpecked old husband.”
”Just that,” he admitted, rising and looking drearily about. ”I don't know what the devil to do next. Everything seems to have stopped.”
”Going to see Josephine this evening?”
”I suppose so,” was his indifferent reply.
”You'll have to dress after dinner. There's no time now.”