The contrast between her life and his during those five years had been
covertly accented by Mrs. Van Loo, whether intentionally or not, and
he saw again as last night the full extent of his sentimental folly. He
could not even condole with himself that he was the victim of miserable
falsehoods that others had invented. SHE had accepted them, and had even
excused her desertion of him by that last deceit of the letter.
He drew out her photograph and again examined it, but not as a
lover. Had she really grown stouter and more self-complacent? Was the
spirituality and delicacy he had worshiped in her purely his own idiotic
fancy? Had she always been like this? Yes. There was the girl who could
weakly strive, weakly revenge herself, and weakly forget. There was the
figure that he had expected to find carved upon the tomb which he had
long sought that he might weep over. He laughed aloud.
It was very hot, and he was stifling with inaction. What was Barker
doing, and why had not Stacy telegraphed to him? And what were those
people in the courtyard doing? Were they discussing news of further
disaster and ruin? Perhaps he was even now a beggar. Well, his fortune
might go with his faith.
But the crowd was simply looking at the roof of the hotel, and he
now saw that a black smoke was drifting across the courtyard, and was
conscious of a smell of soot and burning.
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