Out of bitterness came the recollection of Colonel Willetts's friendly words and generous help. But he could not be altogether grateful, for, if the secret were known, would Colonel Willetts be the same?
He did not know. But he did know it would not make any difference to Rivington. Certainly not, God bless him! And yet he could not tell Rivington, whom he loved as a brother. He dared not. And he could not tell Marion. She would not blame him. She would feel very sorry for him. She would say, softly, “Poor Tommy!” He saw her lips move as she said this. He saw her eyes, moist and luminous. He was sure of her—absolutely!
He drew in a deep breath. With the oxygen came courage. His fists clenched as the fighting mood returned. He would win out. Had he forgotten for a moment that he must fight until he had killed this thing that made his life a torture? He must not stop fighting a single second until he won out. And when that happened—
He saw Marion again. He heard her. She said, “Good boy, Tommy!”
Some one else said, “Hey, there, why don't you look where yer goin', you big slob?”
It was a newsboy into whom he had bumped. “Excuse me,” said Tommy, contritely.
“Aw, fergit it!” retorted the boy.
“I will!” said Tommy, thinking of something else. He would forget it!
He walked into the nearest telephone pay station and called up Marion. He was just in time. She was just about to leave the house to do some shopping, she told him.
“I was coming up to say good-by,” he said. “Can't we have tea somewhere? I'll get Rivington. I think he's at the club.”