Neither was she lonely, nor did
she miss Max. She was simply angry--disgusted--
disappointed at the situation; at herself, at the
woman who had come between them, at the threatened
failure of her plans. One moment she was
building up a house of cards in which she held all
the trumps, and the next instant she had tumbled it
to the ground. One thing she was determined upon
--not to take second place. She would have all of
him or none of him.
At the end of the third day Max returned. He
had not seen Morton, nor any of his clerks, nor anybody
connected with his office. Neither had he sent
him any message or written him any letter. Morton
might have been dead and buried a century so far
as Max or his affairs were concerned. Nor had he
laid his eyes on the beautiful Miss Billeton; nor
visited her house; nor written her any letters; nor
inquired for her. What he did do was to run out to
Walnut Hill, have a word with his manager, and slip
back to town again and bury himself in his club.
Most of the time he read the magazines, some pages
two or three times over. Once he thought he would
look up one or two of his women friends at their
homes--those who might still be in town--and then
gave it up as not being worth the trouble.
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