No more taking each
other for granted."
Turning out the light he sat again before the fire to think his way
through the situation that faced him. He had no thought that she would
return. That last shot of his own had crushed the possibility of that.
The fire was getting low in the grate and he did not renew it. He looked
past it toward the darkened windows and heard the hum of motor cars along
the boulevard below. Again he was the boy of Caxton hungrily seeking an
end in life. The flushed face of the woman in the theatre danced before
his eyes. He remembered with shame how he had, a few days before, stood in
a doorway and followed with his eyes the figure of a woman who had lifted
her eyes to him as they passed in the street. He wished that he might go
out of the house for a walk with John Telfer and have his mind filled with
eloquence of the standing corn, or sit at the feet of Janet Eberly as she
talked of books and of life. He got up and turning on the lights began
preparing for bed.
"I know what I will do," he said, "I will go to work. I will do some real
work and make some more money. That's the place for me."
And to work he went, real work, the most sustained and clearly thought-out
work he had done.
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