Jack was always a thoroughbred.
I was best man. Jack and I had always been bosom friends, and,
although I had lost my sweetheart, I did not intend to lose my
friend into the bargain. Sara had made a wise choice, for Jack
was twice the man I was; he had had to work for his living, which
perhaps accounts for it.
So I danced at Sara's wedding as if my heart were as light as my
heels; but, after she and Jack had settled down at Glenby I
closed The Maples and went abroad...being, as I have hinted, one
of those unfortunate mortals who need consult nothing but their
own whims in the matter of time and money. I stayed away for ten
years, during which The Maples was given over to moths and rust,
while I enjoyed life elsewhere. I did enjoy it hugely, but
always under protest, for I felt that a broken-hearted man ought
not to enjoy himself as I did. It jarred on my sense of fitness,
and I tried to moderate my zest, and think more of the past than
I did. It was no use; the present insisted on being intrusive
and pleasant; as for the future...well, there was no future.
Then Jack Churchill, poor fellow, died. A year after his death,
I went home and again asked Sara to marry me, as in duty bound.
Sara again declined, alleging that her heart was buried in Jack's
grave, or words to that effect. I found that it did not much
matter...of course, at thirty-two one does not take these things
to heart as at twenty-two.
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