"So," he said, with an effort, "I think we will stop for to-day. Put all these matters at work, Mowll. I shall go home and rest."
A thing he had never done before in all his life.
He went back to his house. His wife was at home and alone. They had luncheon together, and drove out in the afternoon. Her calm and stately pride drove the jealous doubts from his troubled mind as the sun chases away the mists of morning.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
"An excellent play."
Such things as dinners to Literature were the relaxations of Gilead Beck's serious life. His real business was to find an object worthy of that enormous income of which he found himself the trustee. The most sympathetic man of his acquaintance, although it was difficult to make him regard any subject seriously, was Jack Dunquerque, and to him he confided his anxieties and difficulties.
"I can't fix it," he groaned. "I can't fix it anyhow."
Jack knew what he meant, but waited for further light, like him who readeth an acrostic.
"The more I look at that growin' pile—there's enough now to build the White House over again—the more I misdoubt myself."
"Where have you got it all?"