The journey had been
checked just outside the city by a blow-out in one of the back tyres.
Kirk had spent the time, while the shirt-sleeved rescuer from the
garage toiled over the injured wheel, walking up and down with a cigar.
Neither he nor Mamie had shown much tendency towards conversation.
Mamie was habitually of a silent disposition, and Kirk's mind was too
full of his thoughts to admit of speech.
Ever since he had read Steve's telegram he had been in the grip of a
wild exhilaration. He had not stopped to ask himself what this mad
freak of Steve's could possibly lead to in the end--he was satisfied to
feel that its immediate result would be that for a brief while, at any
rate, he would have his son to himself, away from all the chilling
surroundings which had curbed him and frozen his natural feelings in
the past.
He tried to keep his mind from dwelling upon Ruth. He had thought too
much of her of late for his comfort. Since they had parted that day of
the thunder-storm the thought that he had lost her had stabbed him
incessantly. He had tried to tell himself that it was the best thing
they could do, to separate, since it was so plain that their love had
died; but he could not cheat himself into believing it.
It might be true in her case--it must be, or why had she let him go
that afternoon?--but, for himself, the separation had taught him that
he loved her as much as ever, more than ever.
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