So he sat alone and unexpectant at his dinner-table that night and
made heroic efforts to pacify the vigilant Sammy whose protest had
warmed his heart a little if it had not greatly assisted his appetite.
He was glad when the meal was over, and he could saunter out on to
the verandah with his cigar. The night was splendid with stars; but it
held no moon. The wind had died away, but it had left a certain chill
behind; and somehow he was reminded of a certain evening of early
summer in England long ago, when he and Daisy had strolled together
in an English garden, and she had yielded impulsively to his earnest
wooing and had promised to be his wife. He remembered still the little
laugh half sweet, half bitter, with which she had surrendered, the
soft raillery of her blue eyes that yet had not wholly mocked him, the
dainty charm of her submission. She had not loved him. He had known it
even then. She had almost told him so. But with a boy's impetuosity he
had taken the little she had to give, trusting to the future to make
her all his own.
Ah, well! He caught himself sighing, and found that his cigar was out.
With something less than his customary self-suppression he pitched it
forth into the darkness. He could not even smoke with any enjoyment.
He would go indoors and work.
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