"I am not interested, Mr. Radbourne."
"But I am. As a member of St. Mark's and as your friend, I am deeply interested. How long will it take, David?"
David only shook his head.
"Man," cried Jonathan, "will you let one reverse—"
"Mr. Radbourne, I beg of you, don't urge that. It's all behind me. I'm not fitted for the work as you think—drawing pretty sketches isn't all of it. I—a man told me once, I haven't the punch. I don't know how to meet competition. And it cost me something—it wasn't easy—to get settled in other work. I don't want to get unsettled again, to face another disappointment. I—"
David stopped. And Esther, watching him too closely to be conscious of her own heart's eccentric behavior, saw in his eyes the hurt which disappointment had left, and philosophy, even a very sound philosophy as formulated by a lame duckling, had not yet fully healed. And she saw indecision there, a longing that she understood, and a fear—
Of its own accord her hand went toward him in a quick pleading little gesture. "You must!" she said softly. "Please!" . . .
Jonathan had left, beaming with joy, violin under one arm, a roll of sketches under the other. They stood on the porch in an intimate silence they saw no reason to break. A young half moon was sailing over the city, dodging in and out among lazy white cloudlets. David watched it and wondered if he and his friends had not been more than a little foolish. He shrank from the thought of another defeat. He shrank even from the thought of a victory; for, should it come now, it would not be alone through his gift or any power that dwelt in him.
"I believe you're sorry you promised him."
He turned to the girl. The disappointment in her tone reached him.