“That’s not queer, it’s abnormal,” said Carnac with gusto.
“Then I’m abnormal,” she said with a mocking laugh, and swung her hat on her fingers like a wheel. Something stormy and strange swam in Carnac’s eyes. All his trouble rushed back on him; the hand in his pocket crushed the venomous letter he had received, but he said:
“No, you don’t worship me!”
“Who was it said all true intelligence is the slave of genius?” she questioned, a little paler than usual, her eye on the last gleam of the sun.
“I don’t know who said it, but if that’s why you worship me, I know how hollow it all is,” he declared sullenly, for she was pouring carbolic acid into a sore.
He wanted to drag the letter from his pocket and hand it her to read; to tell her the whole distressful story: but he dared not. He longed for her, and yet he dared not tell her so. He half drew the letter from his pocket, but thrust it back again. Tell this innocent girl the whole ugly story? It could not be done. There was but one thing to do—to go away, to put this world of French Canada behind him, and leave her free to follow her fancy, or some one else’s fancy.
Or some one else’s fancy? There was Tarboe. Tarboe had taken from him the place in the business which should be his; he had displaced him in his father’s affections... and now Junia!
He held out a hand to the girl. “I must go and see my mother.”
His eyes abashed her. She realized there was trouble in the face of the man who all her life had been strangely near and dear to her. With impulsiveness, she said “You’re in trouble, Carnac. Let me help you.”
For one swift instant he almost yielded. Then he gripped her hand and said: “No-no-no. It can’t be done—not yet.”