ad
been ignominiously punished before her eyes and turned out like a whipped
boy--this knowledge was a dreadful torture to his pride. Sheila, to be
sure, did not love him even a little bit; she had said so. All the
longing and the tumult of his heart during these months had made no more
impression upon her than a frantic sea makes upon the little bird at the
top of the cliff. She had, he must think, hardly been aware of it. And
it was such a terrible and frantic actuality. He had fancied that it must
have beaten forever, day by day, night by night, at her consciousness.
Can a woman live near so turbulent a thing and not even guess at its
existence? Her hand against his heart had lain so limp and dead. He
hadn't hoped, of course, that she loved him the way he loved. Probably no
one else could feel what he felt and live--so Dickie in young love's
eternal fashion believed in his own miracle; but she might have loved him
a little, a very little, in time--if she hadn't seen him beaten and
shamed and cuffed out of her presence like a dog. Now there was no hope.
No hope at all. No hope. Dickie rocked his head against his arm. He had
told Sheila that he would take care of her, but he could not even defend
himself. He had told her that he would die to save her any suffering,
but, before her, he had writhed and gasped helplessly under the weight of
another man's hand, his open hand, not even a fist.... No after act of
his could efface from Sheila's memory that picture of his ignominy. She
had seen him twisted and bent and beaten and thrown away. His father had
triumphantly returned to reassure and comfort her for the insult of a
boy's impertinence. Would Sheila defend him? Would she understand? Or
would she not be justified in contemptuous laughter at his pretensions?

Such thoughts--less like thoughts, however, than like fiery fever
fits--twisted and scorched Dickie's mind as he lay there. They burnt into
him wounds that for years throbbed slowly into scars.

At noon the heat of his room became even more intolerable than his
thoughts. His head beat with pain. He was bathed in sweat, weak and
trembling. He dragged himself up, went to his washstand, and dipped his
wincing face into the warmish, stale water. His lips felt cracked and dry
and swollen. In the wavy mirror he saw a distorted image of his face,
with its heavy eyes, scattered hair, and the darkening marks of his
father's blows, punctuated by the scarlet scratches of the