What could it matter to him that she was coveted by all the men who knew her? He rejoiced in the fact that they were at her feet. It was left for him to look down upon them in the end, and smile with all the arrogance of triumphant possession!
Even as he exulted, a dissolving element was flung upon the crystal in which he saw his own glorification. A harsh, discordant voice was speaking at his elbow. He turned. Ernie Cronk was standing beside him. It required a moment of concentration on the part of the infatuated David to grasp the significance of a certain livid hue in Ernie's face. The hunchback was looking up at him. His eyes were bleak with unhappiness. There was no anger in them: only despair.
"That's the fellow," he was saying, his voice cracking hoarsely. "He's the one she's in love with."
David started. "You mean—she's in love with him?" he demanded blankly.
"That's Bertie Stanfield. He's a great swell. He was here to meet her. I saw him. It's—it's no use, David. No one else has got a show." His inclusion of David in his own misfortune, though by inference, would have been amusing at another time. Somehow, at this moment, it struck David as tragic. Was it possible that he was to find himself in the same boat with this unhappy, uncouth worshiper?
He pulled hard at the end of his short mustache, and swallowed hard with involuntary abruptness.
"I—I have heard of him," he said, a sudden chill creeping into his veins.
"Did she—did she speak to you?" asked Ernie. The hard look was creeping back into his eyes.
"She didn't see me," muttered David.
"She spoke to me. She always does," said Ernie, twisting his fingers. "But," he went on, almost in a wail, "it's because she—she pities me!"