Ashwood's frigid disposition of his wishes
and his manuscript had benumbed him to any enjoyment or appreciation of
the change in his fortune. He wandered out of the house and descended
to the beach in a dazed, bewildered way, seeing only the words of her
letter to Fletcher before him, and striving to grasp some other meaning
from them than their coldly practical purport. Perhaps this was her
cruel revenge for his telling her not to write to him. Could she not
have divined it was only his fear of what she might say! And now it
was all over! She had washed her hands of him with the sending of that
manuscript and letter, and he would pass out of her memory as a foolish,
conceited ingrate,--perhaps a figure as wearily irritating and stupid to
her as the cousin she had known. He mechanically lifted his eyes to the
distant hotel; the glow was still in the western sky, but the blue lamp
was already shining in the window. His cheek flushed quickly, and he
turned away as if she could have seen his face. Yes--she despised him,
and THAT was his answer!
When he returned, Mr. Fletcher had gone. He dragged through a dinner
with Mr. Jackson, Fletcher's secretary, and tried to realize his good
fortune in listening to the subordinate's congratulations. "But I
thought," said Jackson, "you had slipped up on your luck to-day, when
the old man sent for you. He was quite white, and ready to rip out about
something that had just come in.
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