The two things together told hard against Pierre.
Before, he might have gone; in the face of difficulty he certainly would
not go. Willie Haslam's funeral was a public function: he was young,
innocent-looking, handsome, and the people did not know what Pierre would
not tell now--that he had cheated grossly at cards. Pierre was sure,
before Liddall, the surveyor, told him, that a movement was apace to
give him trouble--possibly fatal.
"You had better go," said Liddall. "There's no use tempting Providence."
"They are tempting the devil," was the cool reply; "and that is not all
joy, as you shall see."
He stayed. For a time there was no demonstration on either side.
He came and went through the streets, and was found at his usual haunts,
to observers as cool and nonchalant as ever. He was a changed man,
however. He never got away from the look in Kitty Cline's eyes. He felt
the thing wearing on him, and he hesitated to speculate on the result;
but he knew vaguely that it would end in disaster. There is a kind of
corrosion which eats the granite out of the blood, and leaves fever.
"What is the worst thing that can happen a man, eh?" he said to Liddall
one day, after having spent a few minutes with Kitty Cline.
Liddall was an honest man. He knew the world tolerably well. In writing
once to his partner in Montreal he had spoken of Pierre as "an admirable,
interesting scoundrel.
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