He put his coats and overcoats on the hangers, and the trousers in their holders, flat and creased, and set his shoes out in rows, and the boxes of belts and spurs, and the sword-cases, and the various hat-boxes. He took off his civilian coat and waistcoat—and found in the inside pocket that perfumed nightcap.
And then he wanted Persis! He thirsted and hungered for her. He fevered for her. He called himself names, reasoned, laughed, cursed, tried to read, to write; but "Persis! Persis! Persis!" ran among his thoughts like a tune that can neither be seized nor forgotten. He put out the light, flung up the curtain and the window, and a soft breeze moving from the ocean up the bay seemed to pause like a serenader and croon her name. The torch of the Statue of Liberty glowed like a chained star, and it seemed to be that planet which was Persis and which he could not reach.
Only last night she was in his arms, in his power, and so afraid of him that she cried to him for help from her love; and he had given her up—given her back to herself!
He had kept her pure that Enslee might take her intact! His nobility seemed very cheap to him now. He repented his virtue. If he had taken her then he could have kept her for his own. Now that she had escaped she would never risk the danger again. She had told him so. And she could be very wise, very cold, very resolute.
That night was a condensed eternity. The next morning's duties were performed in a kind of somnambulism.
The second day brought his commission as captain. He glanced over it listlessly and tossed it aside.
For years he had fretted for this document, focused his ambitions on it, upbraided a tardy government for withholding it so long. And now that it was here he sneered at the accolade of it. The increase of pay was a mere sarcasm; it brought him no nearer his planet than going to the roof and standing on tiptoe would have done. The commandant congratulated him. His fellow-officers wrung his hand. He was no longer to be called "Mr. Forbes," but "Captain Forbes." He had a title. But what was the good of it? It did not even make him a rival of Enslee, whose only title was "Little Willie."
Now and then the profundity of his gloom was quickened with resolutions to seek Persis, to storm her home and carry her off. Perhaps that was what she was waiting for. He had often read that women love to be overmastered. Then his pride would revolt. It was not his way of courtship.
But at least he would telephone her. Then he remembered the fruitless effort he had made to discover her number—that mystical "private wire." Ten Eyck would know it. He would call up Ten Eyck. With the receiver off the hook and Central asking, "Number, please?" he grew afraid and answered, "Never mind." He dared not invite another of Ten Eyck's fatherly lectures.
Besides, if Persis cared enough for him to grant him an interview she would seek it herself. But perhaps she had called up the hotel and found him gone. Perhaps she was afraid to call up the post and have him summoned. Women do not like to call up men's organizations; it is like visiting them.