I have
never been able to keep alive anger against any one. My anger against Anita
had long ago died away, had been succeeded by regret and remorse that I
had let my nerves, or whatever the accursed cause was, whirl me into such
an outburst. Not that I regretted having rejected what I still felt was
insulting to me and degrading to her; simply that my manner should have
been different. There was no necessity or excuse for violence in showing
her that I would not, could not, accept from gratitude what only love
has the right to give. And I had long been casting about for some way
to apologize--not easy to do, when her distant manner toward me made
it difficult for me to find even the necessary commonplaces to "keep
up appearances" before the servants on the few occasions on which we
accidentally met.
But, as I was saying, I came up from the office and stretched myself
on--the lounge in my private room adjoining the library. I had read myself
into a doze, when a servant brought me a card. I glanced at it as it lay
upon his extended tray. "Gerald Monson," I read aloud. "What does the
damned rascal want?" I asked.
The servant smiled. He knew as well as I how Monson, after I dismissed him
with a present of six months' pay, had given the newspapers the story--or,
rather, his version of the story--of my efforts to educate myself in the
"arts and graces of a gentleman.
Pages:
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346