THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
this ignoble pursuit. But what he could not understand was the persistence of it against the established fact that the girl was unwilling. He could not see where the zest of the chase came in under these conditions. To pursue something, some one, that loathed you and had made it patent to your face, suggested a mental make-up wholly beyond normal understanding. Hadn't that morning in Venice been conclusive? What more did the man want? Yet there he was, waiting patiently against the hour when he might safely strike. And how would he strike? From behind, in the dark?
If the girl was fool enough to cast her lot with a man like Colburton, why, there was nothing more to be said. You could not argue with a woman who put clothes and good times above her soul. You wasted your breath. But when the girl had looked into the pit at her feet and drawn back, when she had fled temptation, fought and conquered it, as he knew Ruth had. … Well, it was all past his understanding.
Without much difficulty he could fancy the girl's state of mind. She had failed in the work she loved; a little thing like nerves had barred her from fame and money. No doubt she had been desperate; and the devil always held a Colburton in reserve for this moment. But the innate good in her had won out. He never forgot the prayer; the memory of it was always coming back and filling his throat. Yet that black scoundrel did not intend to give her up!
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