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Updated: May 27, 2025
"A piece of metal carried away half the back of his neck," he said. "And we let him sit there, bleeding his life away!" "Is there any chance?" demanded Hal. "I doubt if they'll get him to the hospital alive." "The best man in Worthington!" said Hal passionately. "Oh!" He shook his clenched fists at the outer darkness. "I'll make somebody pay for this." Esmé's hand fell upon his arm.
Then he caught sight of Esmé. "Oh, it's you, Miss Elliot. Sure. Hi! Can it!" he shouted, fending off the distracted mother. "They'll take the kid to the hospital. See? You go along quiet, now." Speeding beyond all laws, but under protection of their red cross, they all but ran down Dr. Merritt and stopped to take him in. He confirmed Esmé's diagnosis.
Chance, by all the truly romantic, is supposed to be a sort of matrimonial agency, concerned chiefly in bringing lovers together. In the rougher realm of actuality it operates quite as often, perhaps, to keep them apart. Certainly it was no friend to Esmé Elliot on this day. The inference, to Esmé's perturbed heart, was obvious; he did not wish to speak to her.
The boy's teeth were clenched and his face darkly suffused. "Convulsions," said Esmé. The two girls were out of the car simultaneously. The agonized mother, an Italian, was deaf to Esmé's persuasions that the child be turned over to them. "What shall we do?" she asked, turning to Kathleen in dismay. "I think he's dying, and I can't make the woman listen."
Guiding himself by the light of matches, Hal hurried across to his den. He heard Esmé's voice before he could make her out, standing near the door. "Is any one hurt?" Hal breathed a great sigh. "You're all right, then! We don't know how bad it is." "An explosion?" "Veltman threw a bomb. He's killed." "Boy-ee!" called Dr. Surtaine. "Here, Dad. You're safe?" "Yes." "Thank God!
Esmé found her new acquaintance interesting both for himself and for his career. Her set in general considered the ripening friendship merely "another of Esmé's flirtations," and variously prophesied the dénouement. To the girl's own mind it was not a flirtation at all. That she already exercised a strong sway of personality over Hal Surtaine, she realized.
"Perhaps it wasn't so much warning as counsel," she returned, a little wistfully. "How poor Esmé's ears must be burning. There she goes now. What a picture! Come early to-morrow."
It is unconventional; but I shall never learn the way to conventionality in spite of all poor Esme's efforts to shepherd me into the path he thinks narrow and I find broad a way that leads to destruction. I feel you absolutely understand boys, and know by instinct the best way with them. That's why I still come to you." She paused.
"Yes. She's away." "Away? Impossible!" "That's what they said at the house. The reporter got the notion that there was something queer about her going. Scared out, perhaps." Hal thought of the proud, frank eyes, and dismissed that hypothesis. Whatever Esmé's responsibility, he did not believe that she would shirk the onus of it. "Dr. Elliot?" he enquired.
Working on an empty heart is almost as severe a strain as the less poetic process of working on an empty stomach. On the morning after the failure of Esmé's strategy and the wrecking of Hal's hopes, the young editor went to his office with a languid but bitter distaste for its demands.
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