The Dust [78]
He was silent.
"She isn't a LADY."
"I don't know," replied he.
"She hasn't any sense. A low sort of cunning, yes. But not brains--not enough to hold you."
"I don't know," replied he. "She's got enough for a woman. And--I WANT her."
"She isn't to be compared with Josephine."
"But I don't want Josephine. I want HER."
"But which do you want to MARRY?--to bring forward as your wife?--to spend your life with?"
"I know. I'm a mad fool. But, Urse, I can't help it." He stood up suddenly. "I've used every weapon I've got. Even pride--and it skulked away. My sense of humor--and it weakened. My will--and it snapped."
"Is she so wonderful?"
"She is so--elusive. I can't understand her--I can't touch her. I can't find her. She keeps me going like a man chasing an echo."
"Like a man chasing an echo," repeated Ursula reflectively. "I understand. It is maddening. She must be clever--in her way."
"Or very simple. God knows which; I don't--and sometimes I think she doesn't, either." He made a gesture of dismissal. "Well, it's finished. I must pull myself together--or try to."
"You will," said his sister confidently. "A fortnight from now you'll be laughing at yourself."
"I am now. I have been all along. But--it does no good."
She had to go and dress. But she could not leave until she had tried to make him comfortable. He was drinking brandy and soda and staring at his feet which were stretched straight out toward the fire. "Where's your sense of humor?" she demanded. "Throw yourself on your sense of humor. It's a friend that sticks when all others fail."
"It's my only hope," he said with a grim smile. "I can see myself. No wonder she despises me."
"Despises you?" scoffed Ursula. "A WOMAN des- pise YOU! She's crazy about you, I'll bet anything you like. Before you're through with this you'll find out I'm right. And then--you'll have no use for her."
"She despises me."
"Well--what of it? Really, Fred, it irritates me to see you absolutely unlike yourself. Why, you're as broken-spirited as a henpecked old husband."
"Just that," he admitted, rising and looking drearily about. "I don't know what the devil to do next. Everything seems to have stopped."
"Going to see Josephine this evening?"
"I suppose so," was his indifferent reply.
"You'll have to dress after dinner. There's no time now."
"Dress?" he inquired vaguely. "Why dress? Why do anything?"
She thought he would not go to Josephine but would hide in his club and drink. But she was mistaken. Toward nine o'clock he, in evening dress, with the expression of a horse in a treadmill, rang the bell of Josephine's house and passed in at the big bronze doors. The butler must have particularly admired the way he tossed aside his coat and hat. As soon as he was in the presence of his fiancee he saw that she was again in the throes of some violent agitation.
She began at once: "I've just had the most frightful scene with father," she said. "He's been hearing a lot of stuff about you down town and it set him wild."
"Do you mind if I smoke a cigar?" said he, looking at her unseeingly with haggard, cold eyes. "And may I have some whisky?"
She rang. "I hope the servants didn't hear him," she said. Then, as a step sounded outside she put on an air of gayety, as if she were still laughing at some jest he had made. In the doorway appeared her father one of those big men who win half the battle in advance on personal appearance of unconquerable might. Burroughs was noted for his generosity and for his violent temper. As a rule men of the largeness necessary to handling large affairs are free from petty vindictiveness. They are too busy for hatred. They do not forgive; they are most careful not to forget; they simply stand ready at any moment to do whatever it is to their interest to do, regardless of friendships or animosities. Burroughs was an exception in that he got his highest pleasure out of pursuing his enemies. He enjoyed this so keenly that several times--so it was