He was
paying her evident court, in a debonair fashion, bending toward her
across the table. Suddenly Clayton was jealous, fiercely jealous.
The jealousy of the young is sad enough, but it is an ephemeral
thing. Life calls from many directions. There is always the
future, and the things of the future. And behind it there is the
buoyancy and easy forgetfulness of youth. But the jealousy of later
years knows no such relief. It sees time flying and happiness
evading it. It has not the easy self-confidence of the twenties.
It has learned, too, that happiness is a rare elusive thing, to be
held and nursed and clung to, and that even love must be won and
held.
It has learned that love must be free, but its instinct is to hold
it with chains.
He suffered acutely, and was ashamed of his suffering. After all,
Audrey was still young. Life had not been kind to her, and she
should be allowed to have such happiness as she could. He could
offer her nothing.
He would give her up.
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