But he couldn't--he couldn't. He knew that his had been a dream of such
supreme sweetness that to awaken was an agony he could never hide; knew
that you can't re-enter dreamland once you wake.
So he went.
He never knew, with the door shut on him, how she fell on her sofa--her
vivacity quenched, her soul spent. He never knew that having failed,
(as she thought) to draw him to her with what she was, she had vainly,
foolishly tried a new model--himself.
He did not know how inartistic love can be when love is desperate.
MAJOR WILBRAHAM
By HUGH WALPOLE
(From _The Chicago Tribune_)
1921
I am quite aware that in giving you this story just as I was told it I
shall incur the charge of downright and deliberate lying.
Especially I shall be told this by any one who knew Wilbraham
personally. Wilbraham was not, of course, his real name, but I think
that there are certain people who will recognize him from this
description of him. I do not know that it matters very much if they do.
Wilbraham himself would certainly not mind did he know.
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