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You're a blind
fanatic. You cram your men on lies and stir them up to hate us. ...
Maybe there's cause, but you magnify it. ... You won't see the truth.
You won't see reason. ... You hold us apart. Maybe you're honest--
fanatics usually are, but fanatics are fools. It does no good to tell
you so. I'm wasting my breath. ... Now take Miss Frazer home--and be
careful how you treat her."
He turned his back squarely and pulled himself into his car. Then he
turned to Ruth. "Good night, Miss Frazer," he said. "I am sorry--for
all this. ... May I come for--your answer to-morrow?"
"No. ..." she said, tremulously. "Yes. ..."
Bonbright straightened his car in the road and drove on. He was at
the end of his strength. He wanted the aid of a physician, and then
he wanted to lie down and sleep, and sleep. The day that had preceded
the attack upon him had been wearing enough to exhaust the sturdiest.
The tension of waiting, the anxiety, the mental disturbance, had
demanded their usual wages of mind and body.


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