Kennedy rapidly began to see that it was far more serious than he
had at first thought.
"Very well," he said with a touch of impatience, "if my word is
not to be taken--I--I'll--"
He had seized his hat and stick.
Elaine did not deign to answer.
Then, without a word he stalked out of the door.
As he did so, Elaine hastily turned and took a few steps after
him, as if to recall her words, then stopped, and her pride got
the better of her.
She walked slowly back to the chair by the table--the chair he had
been sitting in--sank down into it and cried.
. . . . . . . .
Kennedy was moping in the laboratory the next day when I came in.
Just what the trouble was, I did not know, but I had decided that
it was up to me to try to cheer him up.
"Say, Craig," I began, trying to overcome his fit of blues.
Kennedy, filled with his own thoughts, paid no attention to me.
Still, I kept on.
Finally he got up and, before I knew it, he took me by the ear and
marched me into the next room.
I saw that what he needed chiefly was to be let alone, and he went
back to his chair, dropping down into it and banging his fists on
the table. Under his breath he loosed a small volley of bitter
expletives. Then he jumped up.
"By George--I WILL," he muttered.
I poked my head out of the door in time to see him grab up his hat
and coat and dash from the room, putting his coat on as he went.
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