He fixed the Sunday on which to make the effort of his life
in his appeal to the people of his congregation and the world for
the million-dollar fund needed. It was eleven o'clock before they
finished the discussion of the scheme, and aglow with enthusiasm
he left for his home.
As he sat down in the car and lived over again his happiness of the
past hours in this woman's companionship the paradox of his return
in a few minutes to the arms of his wife struck him squarely in
the face for the first time.
He could not plead a mistake in his first love. His romance was
genuine. He had loved with all the fire of his youth. The passion
which drew him to Ruth was mutual and resistless. Yet its ardour
had cooled. He could not say it was his fault, not altogether hers.
It seemed as inevitable in its decline as its onrush was resistless.
Yet at the thought of this new woman he felt his heart beat with
quicker stroke. He was older and stronger than the youth of the
past, and the woman more mature in the ripened glory of beauty.
Yet he began to recall with infinite tenderness the love life with
Ruth. Its memories were very real and very sweet. And the faces of
his children haunted him with strange power.
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