anywhere became too much like being again in that flat where the man, who had been her husband, threatened him and shot him, and where his daughter, with her friends, had come and found him.
So, sometimes, he did not want to seek Sybil Russell or even think about her at all; and when his thoughts, thus driven from her, found lodging, they rested—he became increasingly aware—with a woman whom only recently he had met, a woman who set his pulses throbbing fuller, alluring him, daring him; she had not a previous husband to make trouble and she was no one whom his daughter ever had seen.
Yet when Charles Hale found his thoughts dwelling with her, he caught himself up sharply, for he realized this meant he was desiring not love of a mate, but woman; and he swore to himself he would not let himself go on that road. No; to turn from his wife to the truer love—or what he could at least call the truer love of Sybil Russell—that was one thing; but to become a common follower of women was another. Yet, as matters lay, it was this or Sybil Russell for him now; and in either case, no home; no honor for him where he rested, no clasp and kiss of his child and her voice full of love for him, and admiration, "Father, you're so fine! I love you so!"
That which echoed in his ear was what Marjorie had cried to him as he left his home that night,—the last night it was anything like a home for him. And for it all, he had exchanged—he would not let himself reckon. The scar on his body, bare for an instant as he dressed, showed where Russell's bullet had gone through and Grantham's knife had entered afterwards; he covered it as quickly as possible.
