"I should say not!" Lemoyne retorted. "Nor you, either. You're not in it
now,--or, if you are, you're soon going to be out of it. You would help me
through a thing like this, and I'm going to help you."
The talk went on. Lemoyne presented the case for a broken engagement.
Engagements, as it was well known to human experience, might, if quickly
made, be as quickly unmade: no novelty in that. "I had never expected to
double up with an engaged man," Lemoyne declared further. "Nothing
especially jolly about that--least of all when the poor wretch is held dead
against his will." As he went on, he made Cope feel that he had violated an
_entente_ of long standing, and had almost brought a trusting friend
down from home under false pretenses.
But phrases from Amy's letter continued to plague Cope. There was a
confiding trust, a tender who-could-say-just-what?...
"Well," said Lemoyne, at about two o'clock, "let's put it off till morning.
Turn over and go to sleep."
But before he fell asleep himself he resolved that he would make the true
situation clear next day. He would address that sympathetic mother and that
romantic sister in suitably cogent terms; the father, he felt sure, would
require no effort and would even welcome his aid with a strong sense of
relief.
Pages:
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239