Harold Macgrath

The Best Man Harold Macgrath

CARRINGTON folded the document and thoughtfully balanced it on his palm. What anironical old world it was! There was a perpendicular wrinkle about his nose, and his lipshad thinned into a mere line which drooped at the corners. The drone of a type-writer inthe adjoining room sounded above the rattle-tattle of the street below. Through the openedwindows came a vague breath of summer redolent of flowers and grasses; for it was buteleven o'clock of the morning, and the smell of sun-baked brick and asphalt had not yetrisen through the air. Far beyond the smoking, ragged sky-line Carrington could see theshifting, glittering river and the great ships going down to the sea. Presently the ashes fromhis dead cigar fell in a gray cascade down his coat and tumbled across his knees, but hegave no heed. Ironical old world indeed! Here, suddenly and unexpectedly, he found himself upon thebattle-field of love and duty, where all honest men find themselves, sooner or later. To pitthe heart against the conscience, impulse against calculation! Heigh-ho! Duty is animplacable goddess, and those who serve her most loyally are most ruthlessly driven. Shebuffets us into this corner and into that, digs pitfalls for the hesitant foot, and crushes thevacillating.