The Conflict [40]
that he was impressed--whether he knows it or not.''
She had now definitely passed beyond the stage where she wondered at herself--and reproached herself--for wishing to win a man of such common origin and surroundings. She could not doubt Victor Dorn's superiority. Such a man as that didn't need birth or wealth or even fame. He simply WAS the man worth while-- worth any woman's while. How could Selma be associated so intimately with him without trying to get him in love with her? Perhaps she had tried and had given up? No--Selma was as strange in her way as he was in his way. What a strange--original--INDIVIDUAL pair they were!
``But,'' concluded Jane, ``he belongs with US. I must take him away from all that. It will be interesting to do it--so interesting that I'll be sorry when it's done, and I'll be looking about for something else to do.''
She was not without hope that the books would come that same evening. But they did not. The next day passed, and the next, and still no books. Apparently he had meant nothing by his remark, ``I've some books you'd be interested to read.'' Was his silence indifference, or was it shyness? Probably she could only faintly appreciate the effect her position, her surroundings produced in this man whose physical surroundings had always been as poor as her mental surroundings-- those created by that marvelous mind of his--had been splendid.
She tried to draw out her father on the subject of the young man, with a view to getting a hint as to whether he purposed doing anything further. But old Hastings would not talk about it; he was still debating, was looking at the matter from a standpoint where his daughter's purely theoretical acumen could not help him to a decision. Jane rather feared that where her father was evidently so doubtful he would follow his invariable rule in doubtful cases.
On the fourth day, being still unable to think of anything but her project for showing her prowess by conquering this man with no time for women, she donned a severely plain walking costume and went to his office.
At the threshold of the ``Sanctum'' she stopped short. Selma, pencil poised over her block of copy paper and every indication of impatience, albeit polite impatience, in her fascinating Cossack face, was talking to--or, rather, listening to--David Hull. Like not a few young men--and young women--brought up in circumstances that surround them with people deferential for the sake of what there is, or may possibly be, in it--Davy Hull had the habit of assuming that all the world was as fond of listening to him as he was of listening to himself. So it did not often occur to him to observe his audience for signs of a willingness to end the conversation.
Selma, turning a little further in her nervousness, saw Jane and sprang up with a radiant smile of welcome.
``I'm SO glad!'' she cried, rushing toward her and kissing her. ``I've thought about you often, and wished I could find time to come to see you.''
Jane was suddenly as delighted as Selma. For Selma's burst of friendliness, so genuine, so unaffected, in this life of blackness and cold always had the effect of sun suddenly making summer out of a chill autumnal day. Nor, curiously enough, was her delight lessened by Davy Hull's blundering betrayal of himself. His color, his eccentric twitchings of the lips and the hands would have let a far less astute young woman than Jane Hastings into the secret of the reason for his presence in that office when he had said he couldn't ``afford'' to go. So guilty did he feel that he stammered out:
``I dropped in to see Dorn.''
``You wished to see Victor?'' exclaimed the guileless Selma. ``Why didn't you say so? I'd have told you at once that he was in Indianapolis and wouldn't be back for two or three days.''
Jane straightway felt still better. The disgusting mystery of the books that did not come was now cleared up. Secure in the certainty of Selma's indifference to Davy she proceeded to punish him. ``What a stupid you are, Davy!'' she cried mockingly.
She had now definitely passed beyond the stage where she wondered at herself--and reproached herself--for wishing to win a man of such common origin and surroundings. She could not doubt Victor Dorn's superiority. Such a man as that didn't need birth or wealth or even fame. He simply WAS the man worth while-- worth any woman's while. How could Selma be associated so intimately with him without trying to get him in love with her? Perhaps she had tried and had given up? No--Selma was as strange in her way as he was in his way. What a strange--original--INDIVIDUAL pair they were!
``But,'' concluded Jane, ``he belongs with US. I must take him away from all that. It will be interesting to do it--so interesting that I'll be sorry when it's done, and I'll be looking about for something else to do.''
She was not without hope that the books would come that same evening. But they did not. The next day passed, and the next, and still no books. Apparently he had meant nothing by his remark, ``I've some books you'd be interested to read.'' Was his silence indifference, or was it shyness? Probably she could only faintly appreciate the effect her position, her surroundings produced in this man whose physical surroundings had always been as poor as her mental surroundings-- those created by that marvelous mind of his--had been splendid.
She tried to draw out her father on the subject of the young man, with a view to getting a hint as to whether he purposed doing anything further. But old Hastings would not talk about it; he was still debating, was looking at the matter from a standpoint where his daughter's purely theoretical acumen could not help him to a decision. Jane rather feared that where her father was evidently so doubtful he would follow his invariable rule in doubtful cases.
On the fourth day, being still unable to think of anything but her project for showing her prowess by conquering this man with no time for women, she donned a severely plain walking costume and went to his office.
At the threshold of the ``Sanctum'' she stopped short. Selma, pencil poised over her block of copy paper and every indication of impatience, albeit polite impatience, in her fascinating Cossack face, was talking to--or, rather, listening to--David Hull. Like not a few young men--and young women--brought up in circumstances that surround them with people deferential for the sake of what there is, or may possibly be, in it--Davy Hull had the habit of assuming that all the world was as fond of listening to him as he was of listening to himself. So it did not often occur to him to observe his audience for signs of a willingness to end the conversation.
Selma, turning a little further in her nervousness, saw Jane and sprang up with a radiant smile of welcome.
``I'm SO glad!'' she cried, rushing toward her and kissing her. ``I've thought about you often, and wished I could find time to come to see you.''
Jane was suddenly as delighted as Selma. For Selma's burst of friendliness, so genuine, so unaffected, in this life of blackness and cold always had the effect of sun suddenly making summer out of a chill autumnal day. Nor, curiously enough, was her delight lessened by Davy Hull's blundering betrayal of himself. His color, his eccentric twitchings of the lips and the hands would have let a far less astute young woman than Jane Hastings into the secret of the reason for his presence in that office when he had said he couldn't ``afford'' to go. So guilty did he feel that he stammered out:
``I dropped in to see Dorn.''
``You wished to see Victor?'' exclaimed the guileless Selma. ``Why didn't you say so? I'd have told you at once that he was in Indianapolis and wouldn't be back for two or three days.''
Jane straightway felt still better. The disgusting mystery of the books that did not come was now cleared up. Secure in the certainty of Selma's indifference to Davy she proceeded to punish him. ``What a stupid you are, Davy!'' she cried mockingly.