" As he walked away,
the banker said, with relief:
"He takes it well; he is proud--almost like a Spaniard."
Kirk moved through the crowd as if in a trance, but he was
beginning to realize the truth now; it surged over him in great
waves of gladness. He longed to shout his news aloud. What luck
was his! The world was made for him; there was no such thing as
adversity or failure--Chiquita was his wife! All Christendom might
go to pot for all he cared; that marvellous fact was unalterable.
Yes, and he could speak his mind to Mrs. Cortlandt. His tentative
acceptance of the terms she made sickened him. He wanted to rid
himself of this false position as soon as possible. What mattered
her threats? What did he care for the things she could give or
withhold when all the glad open world was beckoning to him and to
his bride? Success! Riches! He could win them for himself.
Chiquita was all and more than they, and he was a god!
In the midst of his rhapsody he heard a bell-boy speaking his
name, and smiled at him vacantly as he turned away. But the negro
followed him persistently, saying something about a letter.
"Letter? I have no time to write letters. Oh, I beg pardon, letter
for ME?" He took the missive from the silver tray and stuffed it
absent-mindedly into a pocket, fumbling meanwhile for a tip.
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