Part 43 (1/2)

”You'd not have been a successful writer whose work goes on sale to-day in every city in the United States.”

”Perhaps. But I would have had you. What do I care for success in comparison to you!”

Listening, just for an instant the girl's nostrils tightened; again she laughed.

”We seem to be travelling in a circle,” she bantered, ”and keep returning to the starting-point. It's discouraging.”

”It's written,” said Armstrong, simply. ”We can't avoid it. With me you're the starting-point as you're the end, always. Didn't you recognize yourself so in the last novel?”

The girl settled back in her seat wearily.

”You told me, I recall,” she said.

”And in the one before?”

”You told me that also.”

Armstrong was observing her steadily.

”You are in the new one too,” he said; ”the one I've been working on--but which will never be completed now. You've killed the girl there too, Elice.”

”Steve!” The hands had gone swiftly to the girl's ears, covered them completely. ”I shan't listen. This is worse than folly. It's madness.”

”I can't help it,” monotonously. ”It's myself. I can't avoid being myself.”

”Nor I myself, Steve,” very gently. ”Can't you realize that?”

The man pa.s.sed his hand across his eyes as though brus.h.i.+ng away something tangible.

”No, I can't realize anything,” he said dully, ”except that I love you--and have lost. This and that the world is dead--and I am alone in it.”

For the second time the girl arose, and even yet quite steadily. But at last her lips were trembling.

”I think you had better go now,” she requested. ”I can't stand this much longer; and besides, to keep it up would do no good that I can see.

To-morrow is Sat.u.r.day, and if you still feel there is anything you must say to me I shall be at home all day. But to-night--please go now.”

As in a dream, Armstrong arose, obeying her command--as he always obeyed in small things.

”Yes, I suppose you're right,” he echoed dully. ”I realize I'm only making matters worse by staying, only getting us farther apart.” He b.u.t.toned his coat to the chin and drew on his gloves lingeringly. ”If I were to call to-morrow, though, isn't there a chance that you would be different? Can't I have even--hope?”

The girl said nothing, did not appear to hear. Subconsciously she was counting the seconds, almost with prayer; counting until she should be alone.

But still Armstrong dallied, killing those same seconds wilfully.

”Aren't you going to offer me even hope, Elice?” he repeated. ”I'll be in--h.e.l.l when I go, without even hope.”

It was the final straw, that prophetic suggestion, the snapping straw.

With one gesture of hopeless, impotent misery, of infinite appeal as well, the girl threw out her hand.