Most women at
twenty-four had gone through their little tragedy of
love. But she had had no tragedy. She told herself
firmly that there had been no story of love in her life.
There never could be, now. She was too old.
She was tired, too, and very lonely. This man would seat
her on a throne and worship her every day. That would be
pleasant enough.
"I am ashamed of myself," he was saying, "to pursue you
in this way. You have given me no encouragement, I know.
But whenever I go to New York and bone down to work,
something tells me to come back and try again."
Lucy did not answer, and there was a brief silence.
"Of course I'm a fool,"--prodding the ground with his
stick. "But if a man were in a jail cell and knew that
the sun was shining just outside, he'd keep on
beating at the wall."
"Your life is not a jail cell. It's very comfortable, I
think."
"It has been bare enough. I have had a hard fight to
live at all. I told you that I began as a canal-boy."
She looked at him with quick sympathy. At once she
fancied that she could read old marks of want on his
face. His knuckles were knobbed like a laborer's. He
had had a hard fight! It certainly would be pleasant to
rain down comfort and luxury on the good, plucky fellow!
"Of course that was all long ago," said Perry. "I'm not
ashamed of it. As Judge Baker remarked the other day,
`The acknowledged aristocrats of America, to-day, are its
self-made men.' He ought to know.
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