. . . To every man came first the call of passion; then
the love-hunger for a perfect mate. The latter had come to him
to-night as Diane stood in the doorway, a slender, vibrant flame of
life keyed exquisitely for the finer, subtler things and hating
everything else.
Still he drank, but the fires of hell were rising now in his eyes.
There was treachery in the bottle. . . . Diane, he chose to fancy, had
refused him justice, salvation, respect to the memory of his
mother! . . . So be it! . . . His to wrench from the mocking,
gold-hungry world whatever he could and however he would. . . . Only
his mother had understood. . . . And Diane had mocked her memory.
Still there had been thrilling moments of tenderness for him in Diane's
life. . . . But Diane was like that--a flash of fire and then
bewildering sweetness. There was the spot Starrett's glass had struck;
there the ancient carven chair in which Diane had mocked his mother;
there was red--blood-red in the dying log--and gold. Blood and
gold--they were indissolubly linked one with the other and the demon of
the bottle had danced wild dances with each of them. A mad trio!
After all, there was only one beside his mother who had ever understood
him--Philip Poynter, his roommate at Yale.
Pages:
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42