That moment when Claire had thrown the ring
at his feet and swept out of his life like an offended queen had
been the culminating blow of a night of blows, the knock-out
following on a series of minor punches. Subconscious Self seized
the opportunity to become offensive again.
'You've lost her, all through your own silly fault,' it said. 'How
on earth you can have been such a perfect fool beats me. Running
round with a gun like a boy of fourteen! Well, it's done now and
it can't be mended. Countermand the order for cake, send a wire
putting off the wedding, dismiss the bridesmaids, tell the
organist he can stop practising "The Voice that Breathed O'er
Eden"--no wedding-bells for you! For Dudley Damfool Pickering,
Esquire, the lonely hearth for evermore! Little feet pattering
about the house? Not on your life! Childish voices sticking up the
old man for half a dollar to buy candy? No, sir! Not for D.
Bonehead Pickering, the amateur trailing arbutus!'
Subconscious Self may have had an undesirable way of expressing
itself, but there was no denying the truth of what it said. Its
words carried conviction. Mr Pickering replaced the ring in his
pocket, and, burying his head in his hands, groaned in bitterness
of spirit.
He had lost her. He must face the fact.
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