Harris turned and saw a young member of the club who had been present when his challenge had been made. “Hello, George, what woman do you mean?”
“The one walking with old man Roberts.”
Harris looked in the direction which his friend pointed, then gripped his arm convulsively.
“What the mischief are you gripping me that way for? If all women affect you this way no wonder you say that no beautiful woman is good. But, man, you are pale as a ghost. Are you ill?”
“I am not well. Let’s go to the club.”
When they reached their destination, Harris sought a secluded corner. “Has she come to follow me up and torment me again?” he thought. “Poor Walter, if he sees her he’ll try to prove that although she is beautiful, this—” he swallowed hard—“is a good woman. By God! I’ll let him alone, let him get severely punished and see if he won’t change his mind a bit. They said that I was to marry her.” Silently one by one there came to him scenes of what had seemed like a year in heaven, and following them, came what he had thought a miniature Hell on earth.
As if from the throat of some unseen person there came the word, “I can’t marry you John, let us just be friends.”
“I hate you,” he shouted at the top of his voice.
A waiter ran up to the room. “Did you call, sir?”
“Yes, bring me a whiskey.”