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Updated: May 22, 2025
"Almost all you have said is true enough, I fancy. I amount to nothing; I am idle, cynical, selfish. The emptiness of such a life requires a stimulant; even a fool abhors a vacuum. So I drink not so very much yet but more than I realize. And it is close enough to a habit to worry me. . . . Yes, almost all you say is true; Kerns knows it; I know it now that you have told me.
Kerns, of the London Jews Society, and by Bedros, an Armenian vartabed, who had been banished from Constantinople by the Patriarch Matteos.1 His banishment was to the Armenian monastery at Jerusalem, but he turned aside from Beirût to Northern Syria.
"Now," he said to himself, "Tommy must take out his papers. The time is ended when he can issue letters of marque to himself, hoist sail, square away, and go cruising all over this metropolis at his own sweet will." In the meanwhile, at the other end of the wire, Mr. Keen, the Tracer of Lost Persons, was preparing to trace for Mr. Kerns, against that gentleman's will, the true happiness which Mr.
Do you mind my telling you about it?" She stood leaning against the footboard of the bed, not even deigning to raise her eyes in reply. So he made the slightest stir in his chair; and then she looked up quickly enough, pistol poised. "The steamer," said Kerns slowly, "was coming into Southampton six years ago. On deck these two people stood a man of twenty-eight, a girl of eighteen six years ago.
"Pooh," sniffed Kerns, "the whole world has gone love mad, and I'm the only sane man left." But he leaned back in his cab and fell a-thinking of a thin girl with red hair and great gray eyes a thin, frail creature, scarcely more than a child, who had held him for a week in a strange sorcery only to release him with a frightened smile, leaving her indelible impression upon his life forever.
And," added Kerns softly, "no New Yorker in his right mind can go galloping through these five boroughs very long before he's roped, tied, and marked by the 'only girl in the world' the only girl if you don't care to turn around and look at another million girls precisely like her. O Lord! precisely like her!" Here was a nice exhorter to incite others to matrimony.
But they had already passed out of earshot; and in a few moments the shady, sun-flecked bridle path was deserted again save for the birds and squirrels, and a single mounted policeman, rigid, wild eyed, twisting his mustache and breathing hard. The news of Gatewood's fate filled Kerns with a pleasure bordering upon melancholy.
For another minute he stood there, hesitating, glancing backward at the closed door. Then he went away, stooping slightly, his top hat held close against the breast of his tightly buttoned frock coat. During his first year of wedded bliss, Gatewood cut the club. When Kerns wanted to see him he had to call like other people or, like other people, accept young Mrs. Gatewood's invitations.
And after the rosy glow had deepened to a more gorgeous hue in the room, and the electric lights had turned into silver pinwheels; and after they had told each other the story of their lives, and the last siphon fizzed impotently when urged beyond its capacity, Kerns arose and extended his hand, and Harren took it. And they executed a song resembling "Auld Lang Syne."
Anyhow, nothing on earth could ever induce me to look at her again. . . . You say she is now a widow?" "Yes, Mr. Kerns, and very beautiful." "Never again," muttered Kerns. "Never! She was homely enough when I asked her to marry me. I don't want to see her; I don't want to know what she looks like.
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