The curse with which his sensitive imagination had invested
John Bannister's legacy was, after all no imaginary curse. Like a
golden wedge, it had forced Ruth and himself apart.
Everything had changed. He was no longer the centre of Ruth's life. He
was just an encumbrance, a nuisance who could not be got rid of and
must remain a permanent handicap, always in the way.
So thought Kirk morbidly as the automobile passed through the silent
streets. It must be remembered that he had been extremely bored for a
solid three hours, and was predisposed, consequently, to gloomy
thoughts.
Whatever his faults, Kirk rarely whined. He had never felt so miserable
in his life, but he tried to infuse a tone of lightness into the
conversation. After all, if Ruth's intuition fell short of enabling her
to understand his feelings, nothing was to be gained by parading them.
"I guess it's my fault," he said, "that I haven't got abreast of the
society game as yet. You had better give me a few pointers. My trouble
is that, being new to them, I can't tell whether these people are types
or exceptions. Take Clarence Grayling, for instance. Are there any more
at home like Clarence?"
"My dear child, _all_ Bailey's special friends are like Clarence,
exactly like. I remember telling him so once."
"Who was the specimen with the little black moustache who thought
America crude and said that the only place to live in was southern
Italy? Is he an isolated case or an epidemic?"
"He is scarcer than Clarence, but he's quite a well-marked type.
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