“But if she does care, Boy?”
“If she does—Of course, she doesn't—but, if she does, can't you see that only makes it worse? Think who she is and who and what I am! Her family—Humph! you have not met her mother; I have.”
“But if she loves you—”
“Do you think I should permit her to ruin her life—for me?”
“Poor boy! I am SO sorry!”
“It is all right, Mother. There! we won't be foolish any longer. I am going for a walk and I want you to rest. I am glad, we have had this talk; it has done me good to speak what I have been thinking. Good-by. I will be back soon.”
She would have detained me, but I broke away and went out. My walk was a long one. I tramped the beach for eight long miles and, though one might think that my adventures of the night before had provided exercise enough, this additional effort seemed to do no harm. I forgot dinner entirely and supper was on the table when I returned to the house.
I found Dorinda in a condition divided between anxiety and impatience.
“Have you seen anything of that man of mine?” she demanded. “I ain't seen hide nor hair of him since I pitched him out of this room this mornin'!”
I was surprised and a little disturbed. I remembered Lute's threat about “never seein' me no more.”