At last I tried a dramatic agent, and got on the music hall stage. Wood, who were, furthermore, engaged in a little conjugal tête-à-tête of their own. “Why?” He inquired. “John?” He turned around in the recliner. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. He was amused. No matter how many books one read, each was different, as each human being was different. That there Frenchie didn’t look any too friendly to me. Besides, revenge is sweetened by delay; and I indulge too freely in the passion to rob it of any of its zest.
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