File:Harper's New Monthly Magazine Volume 109 June to November 1904 (1904) (14596069490).jpg

Identifier: harpersnew0109various (find matches)
Title: Harper's New Monthly Magazine Volume 109 June to November 1904
Year: 1904 (1900s)
Authors: various
Subjects:
Publisher: New York: Harper & Brothers Publishers
Contributing Library: Brigham Young University-Idaho, David O. McKay Library
Digitizing Sponsor: Brigham Young University-Idaho

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yasserted himself, really knocked down thespectre of his old distrust and stampedon it, he would be a different man. Ifhe had once proved himself, as we say ofyounger chaps, he could go on proving. No, she declared, in nervous loyalty.She was like a bird fluttering to saveher nest. No! You are wrong. Iought not to have talked about him atall. I shouldnt to anybody else. Only,you are so kind. Its easy to be kind, said Jerome,gently, when theres nothing else leftus. She stood wilfully swaying a branchof the tendrilled arbor, and, he subtlyfelt, so dissatisfied with herself for hertemporary disloyalty that she felt aliento them both: Marshby because she hadwronged him by admitting another manto this intimate knowledge of him, andthe other man for being her accomplice. Dont be sorry, he said, softly. You havent been naughty. But she had swung round to somecomprehension of what he had a rightto feel. It makes one very selfish, she said,waveringly, to want—to want things tocome out right.
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BAH! ITS NOT AN EMBASSY 256 HAKPERS MONTHLY MAGAZINE. I know. Well, cant we make themcome out right ? He is sure of the con-sulship ? Practically. You want to be assured of histaking it. She did not answer; but her face light-ed, as if to a new appeal. Jerome fol-lowed her look along the path. Marshbyhimself was coming. He was no weak-ling. He swung along easily with thestride of a man accustomed to usinghis body well. He had not, perhaps, theurban air, and yet there was nothingabout him which would not have re-sponded at once to a more exactingcivilization. Jerome knew his face,—knew it from their college days togetherand through these annual visits of hisown; but now, as Marshby approached,the artist rated him not so much by thefriendly as the professional eye. He sawa man who looked the scholar and thegentleman, keen though not imperious ofglance. His visage, mature even for itsyears, had suffered more from emotionthan from deeds or the assaults of for-tune. Marshby had lived the

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