“We must not do things by halves,” the old soldier crowed. “The man who is to have his own private car as the president of the great S. R. and M. must not be seen, even by a negro porter, crawling into an upper berth. Your plan of living high in order to be on a high level is fine business policy. You haven't spared expense in Atlanta; you mustn't in New York, either. Dine 'em, wine 'em; throw wads of cash at the servants--do anything! They know who the Gaits of Charleston and Savannah were before the War: let 'em see that the old blood is still alive.” They had been at the station only a minute when the train arrived. John Dilk brushed by the porter at the step of the long sleeper, and proudly bore his master's bag into the drawing-room. There was a hurried shaking of hands between Galt and the General, and the train smoothly rolled away. Alone in the luxurious compartment, Galt sank down. The obsequious porter stood awaiting orders, but the passenger scarcely saw him or heard what he was saying. Galt was now fairly stupefied by the magnitude of his crime. It flashed upon him as actually an incredible thing--his leaving Dora with so much to bear! He had taught her that their love, like that of their favorite English novelist, had lifted them above mere conventional rules and ceremonies, and rendered them a law unto themselves. But the awakening had come. She had seen him in the garish light with which Truth had pierced his outer crust and revealed his quaking, cringing soul. She would despise him, the very murmuring of the ponderous wheels beneath him told him that, and from now on he must avoid her. To offer her financial aid in her coming trial would only be adding insult to injury, knowing her as he knew her; so even that must be omitted--even that, while he was accepting the price of her misery. CHAPTER XIV |THE morning sun beat fiercely down on Fred Walton and his new friend as they trudged along the dusty road. The pangs of hunger had seized them, and no way seemed open to obtain food short of begging it at one of the farmhouses which they were passing, and that Fred shrank from doing. “If I could have stopped in Atlanta long enough to have sold my watch we could have paid our way for awhile,” he told his companion, “but I thought we ought to be on the move.” “Yes, of course,” the younger agreed, with a slow, doubtful look into the other's face. “Will you tell me--I give you my word you can trust me,” he went on--“if you have any reason, except for my sake, in getting away from the city?” “Yes, I have, Dick,” Walton replied. “I may as well admit it. I am in a pretty tight place. Things are done by telegraph these days, and I don't feel entirely safe, even here in the country.” “Ah, I'm sorry, Fred!” the boy declared. “You have been so good to me that it doesn't look right for anybody to be running you down like a common--”