Anybody could be successful who really wanted to--
every book said that; the hard part was to get started.
One thing was clear, at least: he could stay here no longer as the
Cortlandts' guest--he had already incurred an obligation which he
would have difficulty in discharging. Yet how could he explain his
change of front? Mrs. Cortlandt, he felt sure, would understand
and come to his assistance with good advice, but he shrank
instinctively from laying the facts before her husband. It was a
deuced unpleasant necessity, and he detested unpleasant
necessities--necessities of any sort, in fact. Still, there was
nothing else for it, so, conquering his sense of humiliation as
best he could, he called up the Cortlandts' suite.
Edith answered, saying that her husband was out; then, in response
to his request, she came down herself.
"What has gone wrong? Why this face of tragedy?" she inquired, as
she seated herself beside him.
"I've received my Declaration of Independence. I've heard from my
dad."
A look of quick understanding drove away the smile she had brought
him, and her manner was one of grave sympathy as she took the
letter he handed her.
She was clad in a crisp morning gown he had never seen, and he
thought it became her extremely well.
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