He
would have preferred a line of conduct suggestive, in some small degree
at least, of the penitent, the chastened, the abashed; a laugh less
ready; a smile less confident; a bearing less self-assured, less divested
of any sense of his need of tolerance, charity, forbearance. "I don't
precisely like his acting in that free fashion here with Rosy," thought
Truesdale; "there are times and times, and there are places and places."
His thought presently turned towards himself. He had no less need, truly,
of charity and forbearance than Paston, yet he was not in the habit, to
any great degree, of adjusting his own manner to varying conditions. He
treated other fellows' sisters just as Paston was treating his. The
idealizing gaze of little Bertie Patterson was upon him; it was not
precisely with reverence, certainly, that he was in the habit of treating
her, for example. And the other girl with the red gown and the wax-work
eyes--her he had treated almost with open derision. But that was
different.
Paston's cheery laugh rang out from the parlor. Truesdale stood in the
library before the bookcase, reading the tarnished titles of the few
spare volumes, as he shifted his weight from one foot to another,
uncertain whether to advance or to retire. Paston knew him for what he
was; but Bertie Patterson, he felt sure, would never acknowledge that he
could be guilty of any wrong. "Hideous thing to be poetized," thought
Truesdale; "but they all do it in one way or another.
Pages:
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194