I had offered
myself. I was not accepted. My dignity, and place in the world, as I
saw them, were dishonored.
When I returned to the house Dorothy had appeared. She smiled gently in
recognition of me. I broke the silence by telling her that I could get a
boat the next day, and that I must be off. She made no reply.
Later we went to the yard, under one of the great trees. Dorothy was
evidently tortured in her mind and did not know what to say to me. She
looked worn and as if she had not slept. I searched her face. A tear
stole down her cheek. She averted her eyes and clasped her hands
together nervously. I could endure the suspense no longer.
"It is best for me to go," I said. She made no reply. "I am sorry that I
have made you suffer. Let me erase everything by withdrawing what I have
said to you." "You can't," said Dorothy. "You are Reverdy's friend; you
know how I love him. You couldn't suppose that anything that has
affected you so deeply would not affect him and therefore me. I never
believed that I could be so unhappy. You are going and that leaves me to
think and think."
My heart took fire again. I stretched my hand to take Dorothy's. She
removed hers gently out of reach. "Go your way, my friend," she said.
"Later I may write you. You are only a boy yet ... and many things may
happen.
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