"
Poor distraught Janet Merryweather! There were times when he was seized
with a fierce impatience of her, for it seemed to him that her ghost
stood, like the angel with the drawn sword, before the closed gates of
his paradise. He remembered her as a passionate frail creature, with
accusing eyes that had never lost the expression with which they had met
and passed through some hour of despair and disillusionment.
"But how could she judge, Molly? How could she judge?" he pleaded "She
was ill, she wasn't herself, you must know it. All men are not alike.
Didn't I fight her battles more than once, when you were a child?"
"I know, I know," she answered gratefully, "and I love you for it.
That's why I don't mind telling you what I've never told a single one of
the others. I haven't any heart, Abel, that's the truth. It's all play
to me, and I like the game sometimes and sometimes I hate it. Yet,
whether I like it or hate it, I always go on because I can't help it.
Your mother once said I had a devil that drives me on and perhaps she
was right--it may be that devil that drives me on and won't let me stop
even when I'm tired, and it all bores me.
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