CHAPTER VII. THE MAN WHO HESITATES
“ Isn't fair',” said Winfield to himself, miserably, “no sir, 't isn't fair!”
He sat on the narrow piazza which belonged to Mrs. Pendleton's brown house, and took stern account of his inner self. The morning paper lay beside him, unopened, though his fingers itched to tear the wrapper, and his hat was pulled far down over his eyes, to shade them from the sun.
“ If I go up there I'm going to fall in love with her, and I know it!”
That moment of revelation the night before, when soul stood face to face with soul, had troubled him strangely. He knew himself for a sentimentalist where women were concerned, but until they stood at the gate together, he had thought himself safe. Like many another man, on the sunny side of thirty, he had his ideal woman
