You are no actor. You are
no more like him than--"
The simile failed her in her wrath.
"Satyr to Hyperion," I quoted bitterly. "Make it strong, please."
I had thought myself in a tight place in the row at Borton's, but it
was nothing to this encounter.
"Oh, where is he? What has happened?" she cried.
"Nothing has happened," I said calmly, determining at last to brazen it
out. I could not tell her the truth. "My name is Henry Wilton."
She looked at me in anger a moment, and then a shadow of dread and
despair settled over her face.
I was tempted beyond measure to throw myself on her mercy and tell all.
The subtle sympathy that she inspired was softening my resolution. Yet,
as I looked into her eyes, her face hardened, and her wrath blazed
forth once more.
"Go!" she said. "I hope I may never see you again!" And she turned and
ran swiftly up the stair. I thought I heard a sob, but whether of anger
or sorrow I knew not.
And I went out into the night with a heavier load of depression than I
had borne since I entered the city.
CHAPTER XIII
A DAY OF GRACE
The wind blew strong and moist and salt from the western ocean as I
walked down the steps into the semi-darkness of Pine Street. But it was
powerless to cool the hot blood that surged into my cheeks in the
tumult of emotion that followed my dismissal by Luella Knapp. I was
furious at the poor figure I had cut in her sight, at the insults I had
been forced to bear without reply, and at the hopelessness of setting
myself right.
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