The Conflict [124]
Davy was high in his own esteem, was in that mood of profound responsibility to righteousness and to the people wherein a man can get the enthusiastic endorsement of his conscience for any act he deems it expedient to commit in safeguarding and advancing his career. His person had become valuable to his country. His opponents were therefore anathema maranatha.
As he and Jane walked side by side in the tender moonlight, Jane said:
``What's become of Selma Gordon?''
A painful pause; then Davy, in a tone that secretly amused Jane: ``Selma? I see her occasionally--at a distance. She still writes for Victor Dorn's sheet, I believe. I never see it.''
Jane felt she could easily guess why. ``Yes--it is irritating to read criticisms of oneself,'' said she sweetly. Davy's self-complacence had been most trying to her nerves.
Another long silence, then he said: ``About--Miss Gordon. I suppose you were thinking of the things I confided to you last year?''
``Yes, I was,'' confessed Jane.
``That's all over,'' said Mayor and prospective Governor Hull. ``I found I was mistaken in her.''
``Didn't you tell me that she refused you?'' pressed Jane, most unkindly.
``We met again after that,'' said Davy--by way of proving that even the most devoted apostle of civic righteousness is yet not without his share of the common humanity, ``and from that time I felt differently toward her. . . . I've never been able to understand my folly. . . . I wonder if you could forgive me for it?''
Davy was a good deal of a bore, she felt. At least, he seemed so in this first renewing of old acquaintance. But he was a man of purpose, a man who was doing much and would do more. And she liked him, and had for him that feeling of sympathy and comprehension which exists among people of the same region, brought up in much the same way. Instead of cutting him off, she temporized. Said she with a serenely careless laugh that might have let a man more expert in the ways of women into the secret of how little she cared about him: ``You mean forgive you for dropping me so abruptly and running after her?''
``That's not exactly the way to put it,'' objected he.
``Put it any way you like,'' said Jane. ``I forgive you. I didn't care at the time, and I don't care now.''
Jane was looking entrancing in that delicate light. Davy was noting--was feeling--this. Also, he was reflecting--in a high-minded way--upon the many material, mental and spiritual advantages of a marriage with her. Just the woman to be a governor's wife-- a senator's wife--a president's wife. Said he:
``Jane, my feeling for you has never changed.''
``Really?'' said Jane. ``Why, I thought you told me at one time that you were in love with me?''
``And I always have been, dear--and am,'' said Davy, in his deepest, tenderest tones. ``And now that I am winning a position worthy of you----''
``I'll see,'' cut in Jane. ``Let's not talk about it tonight.'' She felt that if he kept on she might yield to the temptation to say something mocking, something she would regret if it drove him away finally.
He was content. The ice had been broken. The Selma Gordon business had been disposed of. The way was clear for straight-away love-making the next time they met. Meanwhile he would think about her, would get steam up, would have his heart blazing and his words and phrases all in readiness.
Every human being has his or her fundamental vanity that must be kept alive, if life is to be or to seem to be worth living. In man this vanity is usually some form of belief in his mental ability, in woman some form of belief in her physical charm. Fortunately-- or, rather, necessarily--not much is required to keep this vanity alive--or to restore it after a shock, however severe. Victor Dorn had been compelled to give Jane Hastings' vanity no slight shock. But it recovered at once. Jane saw that his failure to yield was due not to lack of potency in her charms, but to extraordinary strength of purpose in his character. Thus, not only was she
As he and Jane walked side by side in the tender moonlight, Jane said:
``What's become of Selma Gordon?''
A painful pause; then Davy, in a tone that secretly amused Jane: ``Selma? I see her occasionally--at a distance. She still writes for Victor Dorn's sheet, I believe. I never see it.''
Jane felt she could easily guess why. ``Yes--it is irritating to read criticisms of oneself,'' said she sweetly. Davy's self-complacence had been most trying to her nerves.
Another long silence, then he said: ``About--Miss Gordon. I suppose you were thinking of the things I confided to you last year?''
``Yes, I was,'' confessed Jane.
``That's all over,'' said Mayor and prospective Governor Hull. ``I found I was mistaken in her.''
``Didn't you tell me that she refused you?'' pressed Jane, most unkindly.
``We met again after that,'' said Davy--by way of proving that even the most devoted apostle of civic righteousness is yet not without his share of the common humanity, ``and from that time I felt differently toward her. . . . I've never been able to understand my folly. . . . I wonder if you could forgive me for it?''
Davy was a good deal of a bore, she felt. At least, he seemed so in this first renewing of old acquaintance. But he was a man of purpose, a man who was doing much and would do more. And she liked him, and had for him that feeling of sympathy and comprehension which exists among people of the same region, brought up in much the same way. Instead of cutting him off, she temporized. Said she with a serenely careless laugh that might have let a man more expert in the ways of women into the secret of how little she cared about him: ``You mean forgive you for dropping me so abruptly and running after her?''
``That's not exactly the way to put it,'' objected he.
``Put it any way you like,'' said Jane. ``I forgive you. I didn't care at the time, and I don't care now.''
Jane was looking entrancing in that delicate light. Davy was noting--was feeling--this. Also, he was reflecting--in a high-minded way--upon the many material, mental and spiritual advantages of a marriage with her. Just the woman to be a governor's wife-- a senator's wife--a president's wife. Said he:
``Jane, my feeling for you has never changed.''
``Really?'' said Jane. ``Why, I thought you told me at one time that you were in love with me?''
``And I always have been, dear--and am,'' said Davy, in his deepest, tenderest tones. ``And now that I am winning a position worthy of you----''
``I'll see,'' cut in Jane. ``Let's not talk about it tonight.'' She felt that if he kept on she might yield to the temptation to say something mocking, something she would regret if it drove him away finally.
He was content. The ice had been broken. The Selma Gordon business had been disposed of. The way was clear for straight-away love-making the next time they met. Meanwhile he would think about her, would get steam up, would have his heart blazing and his words and phrases all in readiness.
Every human being has his or her fundamental vanity that must be kept alive, if life is to be or to seem to be worth living. In man this vanity is usually some form of belief in his mental ability, in woman some form of belief in her physical charm. Fortunately-- or, rather, necessarily--not much is required to keep this vanity alive--or to restore it after a shock, however severe. Victor Dorn had been compelled to give Jane Hastings' vanity no slight shock. But it recovered at once. Jane saw that his failure to yield was due not to lack of potency in her charms, but to extraordinary strength of purpose in his character. Thus, not only was she