For ten years I've been counting on
you. I made you a sort of standard. I said, as long as he keeps
to his ideals, I'm going to keep to mine. Maybe you think my
ideals have not been very high, but anyway you've made it easy
for me. Because I'm in this business, because I'm good-looking
enough, certain men" -- the voice of the girl grew hard and cool
-- "have done me the honor to insult me, and it was knowing you,
and that there are others like you, that helped me not to care."
The girl paused. She raised her eyes to his frankly. The look in
them was one of pride in him, of loyalty, of affection. "And
now, since I've met you," she went on, "I find you're just as I
imagined you'd be, just as I'd hoped you'd be." She reached out
her hand warningly, appealingly. "And I don't want you to
change, to let down, to grow discouraged. You can't tell how
many more people are counting on you." She hesitated and, as
though at last conscious of her own boldness, flushed
deprecatingly, like one asking pardon. "You men in high places,"
she stammered, "you're like light houses showing the way. You
don't know how many people you are helping. You can't see them.
You can't tell how many boats are following your light, but if
your light goes out, they are wrecked." She gave a sigh of
relief. "That's what I wanted to tell you," she said, "and, so
thank you." She held out her hand. "And, goodby."
Winthrop's answer was to clasp her hand quickly in both of his,
and draw her toward him.
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