It was deafening,
maddening. And there was no relief but to plunge into that abyss and
drown individuality. He flew downward, and as he paused a moment on
the brink, he looked across to the opposite bank and saw a figure
about to take the leap like himself. It was a dim, shadowy shape, but
even in the blackness he knew its waving grace. And she pointed down
into the abyss of blind, helpless, unintelligent torment, and then--
XII.
Dartmouth suddenly found himself standing upright, his shoulders
clutched in a pair of strong hands, and Hollington's anxious face a
few inches from his own.
"What the devil is the matter with you, Hal?" exclaimed Hollington.
"Have you set up a private lunatic asylum, or is it but prosaic
dyspepsia?"
"Becky!" exclaimed Dartmouth, as he grasped the situation. "I _am_ so
glad to see you. Where did you come from?"
"You frightened your devoted Jones to death with one of your
starvation moods, and he telegraphed for me. The idea of a man having
the blues in the second month of his engagement to the most charming
girl in Christendom!"
"Don't speak to me of her," exclaimed Dartmouth, throwing himself into
a chair and covering his face with his hands.
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