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James Greely, cashier of the Millings National Bank, and the only child of its president. Upon the ruffled and rumpled Dickie he smiled pleasantly, made a curious gesture with his hand they both belonged to the Knights of Sagittarius and the Fire Brigade and came to lean upon the desk. "Holiday at the bank this morning," he said, "in honor of Dad's wedding-anniversary.
Millings, that seemed so close below there through the clear, high atmosphere, was far to reach. The sun had slipped down like a thin, bright coin back of an iron rock before the traveler rode into the town. His pony shied wearily at an automobile and tried to make up his mind to buck, but a light pressure of the spur and a smiling word was enough to change his mind. "Don't be a fool, Dusty!
James Greely, the son of the president of the Millings National Bank," he said painstakingly, and a queer confusion came to him that the words were his feet and that neither were under his control. Also, he was not sure that he had said "Natural," or "National." "I do mean Mr. James Greely," Sheila's clear voice came back to him. "He is, I should think, a very great hero of yours."
Perhaps, after all, he didn't like Millings. Perhaps that was what was wrong with him. The Victor was playing: "Here comes Tootsie, Play a little music on the band. Here comes Tootsie, Tootsie, you are looking simply grand. Play a little tune on the piccolo and flutes, The man who wrote the rag wrote it especially for Toots. Here comes Tootsie play a little music on the band."
Oh, my dear, you must have been through such long, long misery there in Millings, behind that desk all stifled and cramped and shut in. And when I came, I might have helped you. I might have understood ... But I hurt you more." "Please don't, Sheila it isn't true. Oh, damn my poems!" This made her laugh a little, and she got up and dried her eyes and sat before him like a humbled child.
He came to with a start, shut the book, stuck it into his pocket, and, crooking his arm over his smarting eyes, he plunged out of the room. Millings had become aware of its disaster. Dickie, fleeing by the back way, leaping dangers and beating through fire, knew by the distant commotion that the Fire Brigade, of which he was a member, was gathering its men for the glory of their name.
And yet above anything he had faced in his life he dreaded the job and the room. The inspiration of his flight, the impulse that had sped him out of Millings like a fire-tipped arrow, that determination to find Sheila, to rehabilitate himself in her esteem, to serve her, to make a fresh start, had fallen from him like a dead flame. The arrow-flight was spent. He had not found Sheila.
He had been forbidden to see the girl who ran away out into the night to look at the stars, the girl who had not laughed at his attempt to describe the white ecstasy of the winter moon. He had frightened her disgusted her. He must have been more drunk than he imagined. It was disgusting and so hopeless. Perhaps it would be better to leave Millings.
No longer could Mary Jane see their prayers ascending like thin gold chains, for that was but an elfin fancy, but she imagined clear in her new soul the seraphs passing in the ways of Paradise, and the angels changing guard to watch the World by night. When the Dean had finished service, a young curate, Mr. Millings, went up into the pulpit.
Then she felt the terrible beating of his heart, felt that he was shaking. "Sheila, I love you." She had hidden her face against the curtain, had turned from him. She felt nothing but weariness and shame. She was like a leaden weight tied coldly to his throbbing youth. Her hand under his was hot and lifeless like a scorched rose. "I want you to come away with me from Millings.
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