|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 65
"How's that big stiff, Kilbourne?" asked Morrison, suddenly. "Is it true he
got well?"
"Oh--yes! He's fine," replied Carley with eyes cast down. A hot knot seemed
to form deep within her and threatened to break and steal along her veins.
"But if you please--I do not care to talk of him."
"Naturally. But I must tell you that one man's loss is another's gain."
Carley had rather expected renewed courtship from Morrison. She had not,
however, been prepared for the beat of her pulse, the quiver of her nerves,
the uprising of hot resentment at the mere mention of Kilbourne. It was
only natural that Glenn's former rivals should speak of him, and perhaps
disparagingly. But from this man Carley could not bear even a casual
reference. Morrison had escaped the army service. He had been given a
high-salaried post at the ship-yards--the duties of which, if there had
been any, he performed wherever he happened to be. Morrison's father had
made a fortune in leather during the war. And Carley remembered Glenn
telling her he had seen two whole blocks in Paris piled twenty feet deep
with leather army goods that were never used and probably had never been
intended to be used. Morrison represented the not inconsiderable number of
young men in New York who had gained at the expense of the valiant legion
who had lost. But what had Morrison gained? Carley raised her eyes to gaze
steadily at him. He looked well-fed, indolent, rich, effete, and supremely
self-satisfied. She could not see that he had gained anything. She would
rather have been a crippled ruined soldier.
"Larry, I fear gain and loss are mere words," she said. "The thing that
counts with me is what you are."
He stared in well-bred surprise, and presently talked of a new dance which
had lately come into vogue. And from that he passed on to gossip of the
theatres. Once between courses of the dinner he asked Carley to dance, and
she complied. The music would have stimulated an Egyptian mummy, Carley
thought, and the subdued rose lights, the murmur of gay voices, the glide
and grace and distortion of the dancers, were exciting and pleasurable.
Morrison had the suppleness and skill of a dancing-master. But he held
Carley too tightly, and so she told him, and added, "I imbibed some fresh
pure air while I was out West--something you haven't here--and I don't want
it all squeezed out of me."
The latter days of July Carley made busy--so busy that she lost her tan and
appetite, and something of her splendid resistance to the dragging heat and
late hours. Seldom was she without some of her friends. She accepted almost
any kind of an invitation, and went even to Coney Island, to baseball
games, to the motion pictures, which were three forms of amusement not
customary with her. At Coney Island, which she visited with two of her
younger girl friends, she had the best time since her arrival home. What
had put her in accord with ordinary people? The baseball games, likewise
pleased her. The running of the players and the screaming of the spectators
amused and excited her. But she hated the motion pictures with their
salacious and absurd misrepresentations of life, in some cases capably
acted by skillful actors, and in others a silly series of scenes featuring
some doll-faced girl.
But she refused to go horseback riding in Central Park. She refused to go
to the Plaza. And these refusals she made deliberately, without asking
herself why.
On August 1st she accompanied her aunt and several friends to Lake Placid,
where they established themselves at a hotel. How welcome to Carley's
strained eyes were the green of mountains, the soft gleam of amber water!
How sweet and refreshing a breath of cool pure air! The change from New
York's glare and heat and dirt, and iron-red insulating walls, and
thronging millions of people, and ceaseless roar and rush, was tremendously
relieving to Carley. She had burned the candle at both ends. But the beauty
of the hills and vales, the quiet of the forest, the sight of the stars,
made it harder to forget. She had to rest. And when she rested she could
not always converse, or read, or write.
For the most part her days held variety and pleasure. The place was
beautiful, the weather pleasant, the people congenial. She motored over the
forest roads, she canoed along the margin of the lake, she played golf and
tennis. She wore exquisite gowns to dinner and danced during the evenings.
But she seldom walked anywhere on the trails and, never alone, and she
never climbed the mountains and never rode a horse.
Morrison arrived and added his attentions to those of other men. Carley
neither accepted nor repelled them. She favored the association with
married couples and older people, and rather shunned the pairing off
peculiar to vacationists at summer hotels. She had always loved to play and
romp with children, but here she found herself growing to avoid them,
somehow hurt by sound of pattering feet and joyous laughter. She filled the
days as best she could, and usually earned quick slumber at night. She
staked all on present occupation and the truth of flying time.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|