“Smile at you?” said Maurie with unutterable scorn. “Why, you poor sawed-off runt, that was all for me. She smiled at me like that before. They’ve tried to—to—bury her in the West, but she’s found—”
“One real man!”
“Me!” said Maurie.
The music stopped.
“Maurie, aside from bein’ a little thick in the head, you’re a pretty straight feller in most ways. I don’t want to see you make no fool out of yourself.”
The smile of big Gordon came from an infinite distance, from a height of almost sacred compassion.
“Jacqueline and me,” he said softly, “we understand. She’s led a sad—what the hell!”
For as the dancers returned to their chairs, Harry During, lurching across the floor, stopped in front of Jacqueline. He had found it difficult to get dancing partners that evening and for consolation and excitement he had retreated to the bar and attended seriously and conscientiously to the matter of quenching his thirst. That thirst was deep-seated and it had taken him a long time to reach the seat of the dryness. Now, however, he had become convinced that he had done his duty by his parched insides, and he started toward the door to take horse and ride home. On the way a vision crossed his path—a vision in green, with a floating mist of dainty coloring over her shoulders. He paused to admire. He remained to stare.
If he had been sober he would have resumed his course with a shrug of the shoulders. But he was not sober. There was a film across his eyes and a mighty music swelling within him. Reason was gone, and only instinct remained. But the eyes of instinct are far surer thar the eyes of reason. He moved closer with a shambling step. He leaned over his sister.
“It’s Jac!”