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He happened to gain entrance into a charity school with a master of understanding mind who recognized genius when he saw it; and finally his beautiful child's treble brought him to the notice of the choirmaster of St. George's, Croyden. So by happy accident his way was clear. Within his soul was no hesitation.
"Good night," she murmured. In a few minutes her soft regular breathing told me that she was asleep. I went forward and seated myself in a tar-bucket, with my head against the mast, to get what sleep I could. But for some time why, I do not know sleep would not come. The image of Edith Croyden filled my mind.
Edith came towards me; all dripping as I was, she placed her hands upon my shoulders. "How grand you are!" she said. "I am," I answered; then I added, "Miss Croyden, for Heaven's sake don't touch me on the ear. I can't stand it." I turned from her and looked out over the sea. Presently I heard something like a groan behind me. The girl had thrown herself on the sand and was coiled up in a hoop.
"So you have succumbed at first sight to our Croyden beauty? Of course I'll introduce you, but I warn you beforehand that she is the most incorrigible flirt in Croyden or out of it. So take care." It jarred on me to hear Marian called a flirt. It seemed so out of keeping with her letters and the womanly delicacy and fineness revealed in them.
When he had walked half a mile along the lonely road he stopped suddenly and asked himself: "What are my plans? What use is there in going to Croyden?" It was a hard question to answer. Still, he must go somewhere. He could not go to St. Louis without money, and there was a bare possibility that he might find something to do in Croyden.
I haven't been able to grasp her taking to you in this fashion, though. It's so unlike Marian. But, since she undoubtedly has, you are a lucky man." I arrived in Croyden at dusk and went to Uncle Tom's. There I found them busy with preparations for a party to be given that night in honour of a girl friend who was visiting my cousin Edna.
I took an unsteady step forward. "Marian?" I said. When I got home that night I burned Dorothy Armstrong's photograph. The next day I went to my cousin Tom, who owns the fashionable studio of Croyden and, binding him over to secrecy, sought one of Marian's latest photographs from him. It is the only secret I have ever kept from my wife. Before we were married Marian told me something.
His goatskin suit shrunk in on him. I could hear his pants as he sat. "I surrender," he said. "Take both the women. They are yours." I stood over him leaning upon the shovel. The two women had closed in near to us. "I suppose you are her husband, are you?" Croyden went on. I nodded. "I thought you were. Take her." Meantime Clara had drawn nearer to me.
At that moment Croyden pointed with a cry towards the sea. "Look," he said, "for Heaven's sake, look!" He turned. Less than a quarter of a mile away we could see a large white motor launch coming round the corner. The deck was gay with awnings and bright dresses and parasols. "Great Heavens!" said Croyden. "I know that launch. It's the Appin-Joneses'." "The Appin-Joneses'!" cried Clara.
By the time I reached the bottom of it I realized that I was in love with Edith Croyden. Then the thought of my wife occurred to me and perplexed me. Our unhappy marriage had taken place three years before. We brought to one another youth, wealth and position. Yet our marriage was a failure. My wife for what reason I cannot guess seemed to find my society irksome.
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