"The
inside doesn't change much. There I'm almost as I was that day
on the big rock. And I guess you are, too--aren't you?"
"The devil I am! I've grown hard and bitter."
"That's all outside," declared she. "That's the shell--like
the scab that stays over the sore spot till it heals."
"Sore spot? I'm nothing but sore spots. I've been treated
like a dog."
And he proceeded to talk about the only subject that interested
him--himself. He spoke in a defensive way, as if replying to
something she had said or thought. "I've not got down in the
world without damn good excuse. I wrote several plays, and
they were tried out of town. But we never could get into New
York. I think Brent was jealous of me, and his influence kept
me from a hearing. I know it sounds conceited, but I'm sure
I'm right."
"Brent?" said she, in a queer voice. "Oh, I think you must be
mistaken. He doesn't look like a man who could do petty mean
things. No, I'm sure he's not petty."
"Do you know him?" cried Spenser, in an irritated tone.
"No. But--someone pointed him out to me once--a long time
ago--one night in the Martin. And then--you'll remember--there
used to be a great deal of talk about him when we lived in
Forty-third Street. You admired him tremendously."
"Well, he's responsible," said Spenser, sullenly. "The men on
top are always trampling down those who are trying to climb up.
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