He saw the distaste of his own home
circle, to which this event had come at least a year too soon. He saw the
amazement, and worse, of Arthur Lemoyne, whose plans for coming to town
were now all made and to whom this turn would prove a psychological shock
which might deter him from coming at all. But, most of all, he saw--and
felt to the depths of his being--his own essential repugnance to the life
toward which he now seemed headed. What an outlook for Christmas! What an
unpleasant surprise for his parents! What opportunity in Amy Leffingwell's
holiday vacation at Fort Lodge to reinforce the written page by the spoken
word! Still forgetful of his engagement with Randolph, he continued to walk
the streets. He turned in at midnight, hoping he might sleep, and trusting
that morning would throw a less sinister light on his misadventure.
Long before this, Joseph Foster had been put to bed, by Sing-Lo, in this
spare room. It was Foster's crutch, rather than a knightly sword, which
leaned against the door-jamb; and it was Foster's crooked members, rather
than the straight young limbs of Cope, which first found place among the
sheets and blankets of that shining new brass bedstead.
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