"Tell me, Vance, how did it feel? Have I not described it rightly?
Were the symptoms yours? Did you not hold aloof and watch yourself
play the brute?"
He remembered the momentary daze which came when he stunned the man
with his fist, and nodded.
"And pride?" she demanded, inexorably. "Or shame?"
"A--a little of both, and more of the first than the second," he
confessed. "At the time I suppose I was madly exultant; then
afterwards came the shame, and I tossed awake half the night."
"And finally?"
"Pride, I guess. I couldn't help it, couldn't down it. I awoke in the
morning feeling as though I had won my spurs. In a subconscious way I
was inordinately proud of myself, and time and again, mentally, I
caught myself throwing chests. Then came the shame again, and I tried
to reason back my self-respect. And last of all, pride. The fight was
fair and open. It was none of my seeking. I was forced into it by the
best of motives. I am not sorry, and I would repeat it if necessary."
"And rightly so." Frona's eyes were sparkling. "And how did Mr. St.
Vincent acquit himself?"
"He? . . . . Oh, I suppose all right, creditably. I was too busy
watching my other self to take notice."
"But he saw you."
"Most likely so. I acknowledge my negligence. I should have done
better, the chances are, had I thought it would have been of interest
to you--pardon me.
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