"All right—that's settled." McTaggart again raised his voice. "A nice car—I wasn't sure who the maker was. Thanks. Good day."
Off he went with a careless nod. The sun poured down on his head, which ached from his long night journey. The stony path felt hot to his feet, adding to his sense of fatigue.
For sleep had been impossible. With every throb of the rocking train he had seemed to hear Bethune's voice and recall scattered, angry phrases.
"I thought ... you meant ... the straight ... game!" This was one of the refrains. The wheels had pounded out the words with the scanded beat of a Greek chorus. Well?—so he did—Bethune was mad! He tried to thrust the thought aside that blame could be attached to him: that, through any carelessness of his, Jill might have suffered. But still it rankled.
"She's only a child..." he said to himself. "She understands. Bethune's an ass! ... And as to 'Aunt Elizabeth'..."
Back it came with hammering force:
"I thought ... you meant ... the straight ... game! ... I thought ... you meant..." He swore aloud.
As the dawn stole in through the windows, wan over the misty hills, the words suddenly changed to these:
"Jill's—not the girl—to love—twice."
They brought a new throb of pain and the man stirred restlessly.