She eluded his every
effort, and he began to doubt that he had drawn her from real life,
after all. She had become a Marjorie Daw to him, and the notion that
he must go through life cherishing a hopeless passion was distracting
to him. His book was the greatest of his successes, which was an
additional cause of discomfort to him, since, knowing as he now did
that his study was not a faithful portrayal of the inner life of his
heroine, he felt that the laurels that were being placed upon his
brow had been obtained under false pretences.
"I feel like a hypocrite," he said, as he read an enthusiastic review
of his little work from the pen of no less a person than Mr. Darrow,
the high-priest of the realistic sect. "I am afraid I shall not be
able to look Darrow in the eye when I meet him at the club."
"Never fear for that, Stuart," I said, laughing inwardly at his
plight. "Brazen it out; keep a stiff upper lip, and Darrow will
never know. He has insight, of course, but he can't see as far in as
you and he think.
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