There was something fantastic in the odd linking of incidents--Selden's
chance view of Betty as she rode by, his next day's sudden resolve to
turn back and go to Stornham, his accident, all that followed seemed, if
one were fanciful--part of a scheme prearranged
"When I came to myself," G. Selden said, "I felt like that fellow in the
Shakespeare play that they dress up and put to bed in the palace when
he's drunk. I thought I'd gone off my head. And then Miss Vanderpoel
came." He paused a moment and looked down on the carpet, thinking. "Gee
whiz! It WAS queer," he said.
Betty Vanderpoel's father could almost hear her voice as the rest was
told. He knew how her laugh had sounded, and what her presence must
have been to the young fellow. His delightful, human, always satisfying
Betty!
Through this odd trick of fortune, Mount Dunstan had begun to see her.
Since, through the unfair endowment of Nature--that it was not wholly
fair he had often told himself--she was all the things that desire could
yearn for, there were many chances that when a man saw her he must long
to see her again, and there were the same chances that such an one as
Mount Dunstan might long also, and, if Fate was against him, long with
a bitter strength.
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