There was a devil-may-care swing to his
walk and a look in his eye that no decent woman would care to see twice.
He ran squarely into Betty Winter in the crowd emerging from the depot.
The little bag she was carrying fell from her hands, with a cry of
startled anguish:
"John--my God!"
He made no effort to pick up the fallen bag or in any way return the
greeting. He merely paused and stared--deliberately stood and stared as
if stupefied by the apparition. In fact, he was so startled by her
sudden appearance that for a moment he felt the terror of a drunkard's
first hallucination. The thought was momentary. He knew better. He was
not drunk. The girl was there all right--the real thing--living,
beautiful flesh and blood. For one second's anguish the love of her
strangled him. The desire to take her in his arms was all but resistless
in its fierce madness. He bit his lips and scowled in her face.
"John--John--dearest," she gasped.
The scowl darkened and he spoke with insulting deliberation: "You have
made a mistake. I haven't the honor of your acquaintance."
Before Betty could recover from the horror of his answer he had brushed
rudely past her and disappeared in the crowd. She picked up her bag in a
stupor of dumb rage and started home. She was too weak for the walk she
had hoped to take.
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