In the third week of my
campaign, Melville was so deeply involved that he had to let the two others
take the whole burden upon themselves.
In the fourth week, Langdon came to me.
The interval between his card and himself gave me a chance to recover from
my amazement. When he entered he found me busily writing. Though I had
nerved myself, it was several seconds before I ventured to look at him.
There he stood, probably as handsome, as fascinating as ever, certainly as
self-assured. But I could now, beneath that manner I had once envied, see
the puny soul, with its brassy glitter of the vanity of luxury and show.
I had been somewhat afraid of myself--afraid the sight of him would stir
up in me a tempest of jealousy and hate; as I looked, I realized that
I did not know my own nature. "She does not love this man," I thought.
"If she did or could, she would not be the woman I love. He deceived her
inexperience as he deceived mine."
"What can I do for you?" said I to him politely, much as if he were a
stranger making an untimely interruption.
My look had disconcerted him; my tone threw him into confusion. "You keep
out of the way, now that you've become famous," he began, with a halting
but heroic attempt at his customary easy superiority.
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