"Lloyd, I tell you that I am out of it. I don't believe the Pole ever can be reached, and I don't much care whether it is reached or not."
Suddenly Lloyd turned to him, the unwonted light flashing in her eyes. "I do, though," she cried vehemently. "It can be done, and we—America—ought to do it."
Bennett stared at her, startled by her outburst.
"This English expedition," Lloyd continued, the colour flushing in her cheeks, "this Duane-Parsons expedition, they will have the start of everybody next year. Nearly every attempt that is made now establishes a new record for a high latitude. One nation after another is creeping nearer and nearer almost every year, and each expedition is profiting by the experiences and observations made by the one that preceded it. Some day, and not very long now, some nation is going to succeed and plant its flag there at last. Why should it not be us? Why shouldn't our flag be first at the Pole? We who have had so many heroes, such great sailors, such splendid leaders, such explorers—our Stanleys, our Farraguts, our Decaturs, our De Longs, our Lockwoods—how we would stand ashamed before the world if some other nation should succeed where we have all but succeeded—Norway, or France, or Russia, or England—profiting by our experiences, following where we have made the way!"
"That is very fine," admitted Bennett. "It would be a great honour, the greatest perhaps; and once—I—well, I had my ambitions, too. But it's all different now. Something in me died when—Dick—when—I—oh, let Duane try. Let him do his best. I know it can't be done, and if he should win, I would be the first to wire congratulations. Lloyd, I don't care. I've lost interest. I suppose it is my punishment. I'm out of the race. I'm a back number. I'm down."
Lloyd shook her head.
"I don't—I can't believe you."
"Do you want to see me go," demanded Bennett, "after this last experience? Do you urge me to it?"
Lloyd turned her head away, leaning it against one of the veranda pillars. A sudden dimness swam in her eyes, the choking ache she knew so well came to her throat. Ah, life was hard for her. The very greatness of her nature drove from her the happiness so constantly attained by little minds, by commonplace souls. When was it to end, this continual sacrifice of inclination to duty, this eternal abnegation, this yielding up of herself, her dearest, most cherished wishes to the demands of duty and the great world?
"I don't know what I want," she said faintly. "It don't seem as if one could be happy—very long."