She
had a sudden vision of what he might be if shorn of his poverty. There
was something debonair--finished--an almost youthful grace--a hint of
manner--
She sighed. "Oh, the waste of it!"
"Of what?"
She flamed. "Of you!"
Then she went in and shut the door.
He stood uncertainly in the hall. Then once again he faced the cold.
Around the corner was a shop where he would buy the red candle. The ten
cents which he would pay was to have gone for his breakfast. He had
sacrificed his supper that he might not go hungry on Christmas morning.
He had planned a brace of rolls and a bottle of milk. It had seemed to
him that he could face a lean night with the promise of these.
There were no red candles in the shop. There were white ones, but a red
candle was a red candle--with a special look of Christmas cheer. He
would have no other.
The turn of a second corner brought him to the great square. Usually he
avoided it. The blaze of gold on the west side was the club.
A row of motors lined the curb. There was Baxter's limousine and
Fenton's French car.
Pages:
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153