"One
never could tell what was behind his indifference or--or flippancies.
He mocked at things . . . customs and courses of action, which we have
come to accept and . . . and recognize. But he was always gentle with
her, and kind, and--oh, I think reverend is the right word! Now,
knowing Garry as I do--as you will, when you see him again--the phrase
may seem a strange one to apply to him. And yet it describes best his
bearing toward Mary Graves, two years ago."
She was walking more slowly now, without knowing it.
"I doubt if Garry ever revered anything on earth, or above it, except
just little, white, shy Mary Graves, who never grew much bigger than
she was when you knew her. I don't know whether you know it--of course
you don't!--but his father cared that way for a woman, cared just as
utterly. And everybody thought this match was an assured thing; they
even wondered at it a little, she was so . . . so mouselike, and Garry
so brilliant and hard and--I don't like the word sophisticated. It
seemed to me that Garry's wisdom was not a thing which he had acquired
himself. It seemed more the accumulated wisdom of ages and ages which
was his just by--by instinct.
"He cared for her that way, Mr. O'Mara, and she married another man,
almost without a word of explanation to him. Nobody ever cited Garry
as a shining example, but he--that man whom Mary Graves married--had an
unspeakable record! Her family made the match--the newspapers call it
a union of America's fairest youth and powerful millions, don't they?
Well, he had them--and she married him.
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