All during those six weeks he had been waiting for this hour
when he should sit beside the little grey-clad figure, getting from her
the help he wanted in the reconstruction of his life. Without being able
to talk as he had thought of talking, he yet felt assured and easy in his
mind. In the moment when she had come down the stairway he had been half
overcome by a feeling of intense shame, a return of the shame that had
swept over him that night when she had given her word and he had walked
hour after hour through the streets. It had seemed to him that from among
the guests standing about should arise a voice crying, "Stop! Do not go
on! Let me tell you of this fellow--this McPherson!" And then he had seen
her holding to the arm of swaggering, pretentious Colonel Tom and he had
taken her hand to become one with her, two curious, feverish, strangely
different human beings, taking a vow in the name of their God, with the
flowers banked about them and the eyes of people upon them.
When Sam had gone to Colonel Tom the morning after that evening in Jackson
Park, there had been a scene. The old gun maker had blustered and roared
and forbidden, pounding on his desk with his fist. When Sam remained cool
and unimpressed, he had stormed out of the room slamming the door and
shouting, "Upstart! Damned upstart!" and Sam had gone smiling back to his
desk, mildly disappointed.
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