“No, Jack. Except that I shall remember this birthday as the most miserable day of my life. You have not made it easy for me.”
“Why should I?” he asked, the uncompromising egotism of youth suddenly harshly apparent. “You refuse the best gift I can offer you—myself!”
“I can’t help myself. But,” she hesitated on the pathetically forlorn appeal, “you might be kind.” Her eyes implored him.
He struck himself upon the forehead with a dramatic little ejaculation which matched the gesture.
“Bah!—It all seems like an evil dream to me!”
She smiled at him, sadly.
“I wish it came out of the gate of ivory, Jack—and not out of the gate of horn!”
He flushed, his raw sensitiveness resentful of this boomerang return of his own witticism.
“You can keep your sense of humour for James Arrowsmith, Betty!—Good-bye!”
He snatched open the door, went out. He could not visualize her standing there listening for his shattering slam of the front door, running to the window for a last glimpse. He thought of her only as mocking at the tragedy which was so real to him.