"No man of that kind will ever come."
"What kind?"
"That will make me willing to lose the world."
The rain was beating against the windows of the cab.
"Porter, please. We must go home."
"Not unless you'll promise to let me prove it--to let me show that I'm
a man--not a--boy."
"You're the best friend I've ever had. I wish you wouldn't insist on
being something else."
"But I do insist----"
"And I insist upon going home. Be good and take me."
It was said with decision, and he gave the order to the driver. And so
they whirled at last up the avenue of the Presidents and along the
edges of the Park, and arrived at the foot of the terrace of the big
house.
There was a light in the tower window.
"That fellow is up yet," Porter said. He had an umbrella over her, and
was shielding her as best he could from the rain. "I don't like to
think of him in the house."
"Why not?"
"Oh, he sees you every day. Talks to you every day. And what do you
know of him? And I who've known you all my life must be content with
scrappy minutes with other people around. And anyhow--I believe I'd be
jealous of Satan himself, Mary."
They were under the porch now, and she drew away from him a bit,
surveying him with disapproving eyes.
"You aren't like yourself to-night, Porter."
He put one hand on her shoulder and stood looking down at her. "How
can I be? What am I going to do when I leave you, Mary, and face the
fact that you don't care--that I'm no more to you--than that fellow up
there in the--tower?"
He straightened himself, then with the madness of his earlier mood upon
him, he said one thing more before he left her: "Contrary Mary, if I weren't such a coward, and you weren't
so--wonderful--I'd kiss you now--and make you--care----"