"The clouds, methought, would open, and show riches
Ready to drop upon me. . ."
There was all that work that he had meant to do before morning. It
seemed far off--more unreal and fantastic than a fairy tale. His heart
and brain, ached with willingness and loathing.
". . . that, when I wak'd,
I cried to dream again. . ."
He set his teeth. He clenched his hands till they hurt him.
"I'll have to keep away from all that," he thought aloud,
"altogether--till I don't care any more."
IV
1
After all, Rufus Cosgrave had imagined his answers. Connie Edwards met
Robert as he came out of the hospital gates and told him. It was raining
dismally, with an ill-tempered wind blustering down the crowded street,
and she had not dressed for bad weather. Perhaps she did not admit
unpleasant possibilities even into her wardrobe. Perhaps she could not
afford to do so. Her thin, paper-soled shoes, with the Louis XIV heels,
and the cheap silk stockings which showed up to her knees, made her look
like some bedraggled, long-legged bird-of-Paradise. A gaudy parasol
could not protect her flopping hat, or her complexion, which had both
suffered. Or she had been crying. But she did not sound as though she
had been crying. She sounded breathless and resentful.
"He heard this afternoon," she said. "And what must he do but come
bursting round to my place--half an hour before I'm due to start for the
show--and carry on like a madman.
Pages:
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200