She could see that they took
her to be one of their sort, and shocks of red and white alternated
through her skin.
When Jim was ready he came down with his evening clothes in the
suit-case. The baggage was the final convincing touch. He picked
up the gasolene-can and toted it that weary mile. One of the hotel
servants offered to carry it, but Jim was in no mood for company.
There are things that the wealthiest man does not want to have done
for him.
They found the car studded with pools of water from the rain, and
Charity shook out the cushions while Jim filled up the tank.
"Quite domestic," said Charity, in the last dregs of bitterness.
Jim did not answer. He flung the can over into a field and hopped
into the car. He regretted that he had no spurs to dig into its
sides, no curb bit to jerk. He owed his destruction to that car.
For want of gasolene, the car was lost; for want of the car, a
reputation was lost.
He thought with frenzy as he drove. He had little imagination, but
it did not require an expert dreamer to foresee dire possibilities
ahead. He was so sorry for Charity that he could have wept. He
wanted to enfold her in his arms and promise her security. He wanted
to stand in front of her and take in his own breast all the arrows
of scorn that might shower upon her.
But the nearest approach to protection in his power lay along the
lines of appearing to be indifferent to her. He had not been told of
Kedzie's infatuation for Strathdene and he had not suspected it.
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