I have always liked to believe that the splendors of that last walk
endured to the end--that there was no uncertainty, no hesitation, above
all, no vulgar stumbling; but that the last high step, which plunged him
into the chill waters of the race, was lifted in the same exulting
serenity as the first.
I stood in my garden that evening, charmed by the wild, sweet,
gusty-gentle music of the spring night.
Northward, in the gathering dusk, came a solitary figure walking
rapidly--a slight, nervous figure, a soft hat drawn well over the face,
the skirts of its coat streaming to the breeze. As it passed me, I
recognized Solon Denney. He was gesticulating with some violence, and I
could see his expressive face work as if he uttered words to himself. I
thought it possible that he might be composing a piece for his
newspaper. Instantly there came to my mind that rather coarse paraphrase
of Westley Keyts--"A hand of mush in a glove of the _same!_"
I did not intrude upon my friend as he passed.
CHAPTER III
THE PERFECT LOVER
To the crime of being Potts the wretched Colonel had now added
malversation of a trust fund. But I crave surcease, while it may be
mine, from the immediately troubling waters of Potts.
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