For some moments he lay in deep thought. The last half-hour in the
arbor under the palms came back to him; the tones of Ruth's voice;
the casual way in which she returned his devouring glance. She
didn't love him; never had loved him; wouldn't ever love him.
Anybody could carry another fellow out on his back; was done every
day by firemen and life-savers,--everybody, in fact, who happened
to be around when their services were most needed. Grateful! Of
course the rescued people and their friends were grateful until
they forgot all about it, as they were sure to do the next day, or
week, or month. Gratitude was not what he wanted. It was love.
That was the way he felt; that was the way he would always feel.
He who loved every hair on Ruth's beautiful head, loved her
wonderful hands, loved her darling feet, loved the very ground on
which she walked "Gratitude!" eh! That was the word his uncle had
used the day he slammed the door of his private office in his
face. "Common gratitude, damn you, Jack, ought to put more sense
in your head," as though one ought to have been "grateful" for a
seat at a gambling table and two rooms in a house supported by its
profits.
Pages:
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314