No one
could understand that change in him. He could find no spirit in
sympathy with him, no chord in another breast that he could reach
out and touch and thrill with understanding. Once he had hoped--
and tried--
A deep breath, almost a sigh, fell from his lips as he thought of
that last night, at the Brokaw ball. He heard again the laughter
and chatter of men and women, the soft rustle of skirts--and then
the break, the silence, as the low, sweet music of his favorite
waltz began, while he stood screened behind a bank of palms
looking down into the clear gray eyes of Eileen Brokaw. He saw
himself as he had stood then, leaning over her slim white
shoulders, intoxicated by her beauty, his face pale with the fear
of what he was about to say; and he saw the girl, with her
beautiful head thrown a little back, so that her golden hair
almost touched his lips, waiting for him to speak. For months he
had fought against the fascination of her beauty. Again and again
he had almost surrendered to it, only to pull himself back in
time. He had seen this girl, as pure-looking as an angel, strike
deeply at the hearts of other men; he had heard her laugh and talk
lightly of the wounds she had made.
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