But now a new factor had come into the
game. I spread out the paper and stared at the head-lines: "Black Matt To
Wed Society Belle--The Bucket-Shop King Will Lead Anita Ellersly To The
Altar." I tried to read the vulgar article under these vulgar lines, but I
could not. I was sick, sick in body and in mind. My "nerve" was gone. I was
no longer the free lance; I had responsibilities.
That thought dragged another in its train, an ugly, grinning imp that
leered at me and sneered: "_But she won't have you now_!"
"She will! She must!" I cried aloud, starting up. And then the storm
burst--I raged up and down the floor, shaking my clinched fists, gnashing
my teeth, muttering all kinds of furious commands and threats--a truly
ridiculous exhibition of impotent rage. For through it all I saw clearly
enough that she wouldn't have me, that all these people I'd been trying
to climb up among would kick loose my clinging hands and laugh as they
watched me disappear. They who were none too gentle and slow in disengaging
themselves from those of their own lifelong associates who had reverses
of fortune--what consideration could "Black Matt" expect from them? And
she--The necessity and the ability to deceive myself had gone, now that I
could not pay the purchase price for her.
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