“He used to come here,” she went on, “to rest a moment, to escape from all this hateful confusion and strife. He is killing himself! And they aren’t worth it—those ignorant people—they aren’t worth such sacrifices.”
He got up from the table and turned away, and then, realizing quickly, she flew to his side and put her arms about his neck and said:
“Forgive me, dearest, I didn’t mean—only—”
“Oh, Edith,” he said, “this is killing me. I feel like a dog.”
“Don’t dear; he is big enough, and good enough; he will understand.”
“Yes; that only makes it harder, only makes it hurt the more.”
That afternoon, in the car, he heard no talk but of the election; and down-town, in a cigar store where he stopped for cigarettes, he heard some men talking mysteriously, in the hollow voice of rumor, of some sensation, some scandal. It alarmed him, and as he went into the office he met Manning, the Telegraph’s political man.
“Tell me, Manning,” Kittrell said, “how does it look?”
“Damn bad for us.”
“For us?”