He would fling away his cold reserve, would burst
into raptures over her virtue and her courage, would
ask her to marry him. Or, if he should put off that,
he would at least undertake the responsibility of getting
her started in her career. Well! He had come; he
had shown that Stanley had told him all or practically
all; and he had gone, without asking a sympathetic
question or making an encouraging remark. As
indifferent as he seemed. Burnt out, cold, heartless.
She had leaned upon him; he had slipped away, leaving
her to fall painfully, and ludicrously, to the ground.
She had been boasting to herself that she was strong,
that she would of her own strength establish herself in
independence. She had not dreamed that she would be
called upon to ``make good.'' She raved against Keith,
against herself, against fate. And above the chaos and
the wreck within her, round and round, hither and yon,
flapped and shied the black thought, ``What SHALL I do?''
When she sat up and dried her eyes, she chanced to
see the paper Keith had left; with wonder at her having
forgotten it and with a throb of hope she opened
and began to read his small, difficult writing:
A career means self-denial.
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