If
I were you, I'd go and talk to someone else, if conversation's what you
need."
Kirk stood motionless at the rail, thinking. It was not what was past
that occupied his thoughts, as the third officer had supposed; it was
the future.
The forlorn hope had failed; he was limping back to Ruth wounded and
broken. He had sent her a wireless message. She would be at the dock to
meet him. How could he face her? Fate had been against him, it was
true, but he was in no mood to make excuses for himself. He had failed.
That was the beginning and the end of it. He had set out to bring back
wealth and comfort to her, and he was returning empty-handed.
That was what the immediate future held, the meeting with Ruth. And
after? His imagination was not equal to the task of considering that.
He had failed as an artist. There was no future for him there. He must
find some other work. But he was fit for no other work. He had no
training. What could he do in a city where keenness of competition is a
tradition? It would be as if an unarmed man should attack a fortress.
The thought of the years he had wasted was very bitter. Looking back,
he could see how fate had tricked him into throwing away his one
talent. He had had promise. With hard work he could have become an
artist, a professional--a man whose work was worth money in the open
market.
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