He had
kissed a dozen times the spot where her lips had pressed it. Blind
fool! Deeper and deeper; he knew that he never could go back to that
safe ledge of the heart-free. Time could not change his heart, not if
given the thousand years of the wandering Jew.
Bah! He would walk round the fountain and cool his crazy pulse. He was
Irish, Irish to the core. Would any one, save an Irishman, give way, day
after day, to those insane maunderings? His mood was savage; he was at
odds with the world, and most of all, with himself. If only some one
would come along and shoulder him rudely! He laughed ruefully. He was in
a fine mood to make an ass of himself.
He left the bench and strolled round the fountain, his cane behind his
back, his chin in his collar. He had made the circle several times, then
he blundered into some one. The fighting mood was gone now, the walk
having calmed him. He murmured a short apology for his clumsiness and
started on, without even looking at the animated obstacle.
"Just a moment, my studious friend."
"Wallenstein? I didn't see you." Carmichael halted.
"That was evident," replied the colonel jestingly. "Heavens! Have you
really cares of state, that you walk five times round this fountain,
bump into me, and start to go on without so much as a how-do-you-do?"
"I'm absent-minded," Carmichael admitted.
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