“Adelaide—I was a fool. I’m surprised you didn’t see it, for yourself. I made a mess of things. I was a dreamer. I’ve stopped now!” He brandished his pile of yellow papers. “America has no place for men who make a profession of what fills leisure moments. What do philosophizing and book-reading get you? What earning capacity have they? It’s been my experience—and I’ve had enough to speak—that these professional fillers of leisure moments fall flat as dough when real life strikes them.”
Adelaide was looking at him intently. It seemed to Quincy that she was heeding with so serious an air not so much his words as a part of him that had been silent.
“Why don’t you speak frankly with me, ever?” she said at last.
“What do you want to know?”
“I want to know about you, Quincy—not about all these ideas with which you keep on fighting yourself!”
He sneered at her. “Aren’t they worth anything, then?”
“Not in your mouth, Quincy,” was her quick rejoinder.
It was his turn to look intent. He felt somewhat ashamed to meet her little, soft eyes. He saw the crinkly flesh about them. He felt guilty in so scrutinizing her. But to hide his shame and guilt he had to keep on looking. And as he did so, Adelaide grew fearful of her boldness, regretful lest she had wounded him. Truth, after all, was less important than his well-being. If truth made him uncomfortable, it was a thing to be slain! With a real victory in her hands, she gave it up. She rose and went toward the door.
“You’re busy. I’ll not disturb you now”—and she left.
Quincy looked where she had gone. And then, he looked at his work.