THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
She was good, anyhow. No woman could pray like that and not be good. It was just a simple prayer of a soul in trouble. His clean heart and his cynical knowledge fought over this conclusion. It is impossible for a man to let sordidness touch the skirts of the woman he loves. He must idealize her and put her on a pedestal, for man cannot worship anything not above his own level. It is a healthy sign for all that the world is full of wabbly pedestals. It is a phase of that indefinable longing to find something by which to pull ourselves upward. In other words, we still make little gods of our own.
"I'm a poor simp," he murmured, looking up at the moon and finding it far over the other side of the ship. He pulled out his watch—the old fat silver timepiece which had been his father's. Half after two!
He remembered reading somewhere about the glamour of love. There was nothing to it; it was all doubt and then some more doubt. He was very unhappy. In this love-game he had no assets, only liabilities.
It was time for bed. As he entered the port companionway she came into the starboard, and they met on the first landing.
"Why!" she exclaimed, startled at the sight of him.
"I couldn't sleep, somehow," he said.
"Nor could I."
"I guess we overdid a little in Gibraltar," he suggested.
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