He assumed his little fussy air
of cheerfulness, told several stories of the war, and finally, after
Kendrick had left, brought out some whisky and water. He winked
slyly at Orde.
"Can't do this before the youngsters, you know," he chirruped
craftily.
Throughout the meal Gerald had sat back silent, a faint amusement in
his eye. After dinner he arose, yawned, consulted his watch, and
departed, pleading an engagement. Orde lingered some time,
listening to the general, in the hope that Carroll would reappear.
She did not, so finally he took his leave.
He trudged back to his hotel gloomily. The day had passed in a most
unsatisfactory manner, according to his way of looking at it. Yet
he had come more clearly to an understanding of the girl; her
cheerfulness, her unselfishness, and, above all, the sweet,
beautiful philosophy of life that must lie back, to render her so
uncomplainingly the slave of the self-willed woman, yet without the
indifferent cynicism of Gerald, the sullen, yet real, partisanship
of Kendrick, or the general's week-kneed acquiescence.
The next morning he succeeded in making an arrangement by letter for
an excursion to the newly projected Central Park. Promptly at two
o'clock he was at the Bishops' house.
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