at waked me. By the time
I was wide awake the laughter sounded very ugly, and by the time I got
to him it was mixed with awful sobs that came all the way from his
diaphragm and seemed as if they were going to tear him to pieces. I
turned on the light, but the moment I saw his face I turned it off. It
isn't decent for one man to see another have hysterics. We haven't
spoken of the thing since, but he knows that I came in and sat by him
and felt horribly sorry for him. I can read this in his eye. And I
think he would do anything in the world for me. The next morning his
voice was very hoarse; sometimes a woman's voice is that way after
she's paid somewhat over-handsomely for being a woman. I am trying to
convey to you the impression that the man is in a terribly bad way, and
through no possible fault of his own, which must make his torment
harder to bear.

What I think about Lucy Fulton is simply this: that she ought to be
cowhided until she sees which side her bread is buttered on. And this
is where you come in. You're great friends with her, and have a lot of
influence with her. John says so. She admires what she is pleased to
call your judgment. Can't you make her see that just because she has
been spoiled, and given all the best of everything, she's gotten bored,
and is letting one of the best men in this world eat his heart out with
grieving? She ought to lie to him. She ought to telegraph him to come
back, and when she gets him back she ought to make him think that she
still loves him. Every woman has at heart one chance to be decent.
This is hers.

Another thing. John has betrayed his notion that Lucy sees too much of
you for her own good, at this time. He doesn't even imagine that she
cares for you in any way that she shouldn't or you for her; but he does
wish--well, that you'd gone to California when you planned to, etc.,
etc. Now the season's pretty nearly over, and I know that a few weeks
one way or the other never did matter to you and won't now. Of course,
it has its ridiculous side, but I really think it would comfort John
Fulton quite a little if he heard that you had left Aiken. You see
he's half crazy with grief and insomnia, and he's got it in his head
that if Lucy had fewer other people to amuse her, she might get bored
again and in sheer boredom turn again to him. But just use your
influence with Lucy, if you've got any. I tell you on the honor of a
cynical and skeptical man, t