No, it was not exactly
resignation, it was rather sheer lack of commercial instinct. If only
this had been the lost cause of another person. How gallantly he would
have rushed to the assault, and taken her by storm! If only he himself
could have been that other person, how easily, how passionately could
he not have pleaded, letting forth from him all those words which had
knocked at his teeth ever since he knew her, and which would have seemed
so ridiculous and so unworthy, spoken on his own behalf. Yes, for that
other person he could have cut her out from under the guns of the
enemy; he could have taken her, that fairest prize. And in queer,
cheery-looking apathy--not far removed perhaps from despair--he sat,
watching the leaves turn over and fall, and now and then cutting with
his stick at the air, where autumn was already riding. And, if in
imagination he saw himself carrying her away into the wilderness, and
with his devotion making her happiness to grow, it was so far a flight,
that a smile crept about his lips, and once or twice he snapped his
jaws.
The soldier and his girl rose, passing in front of him down the Row. He
watched their scarlet and blue figures, moving slowly towards the sun,
and another couple close to the rails, crossing those receding forms.
Very straight and tall, there was something exhilarating in the way this
new couple swung along, holding their heads up, turning towards each
other, to exchange words or smiles.
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