Cary went, and Rand lay back upon his pillows, weary enough, though with
a smile upon his lips. He valued Cary's visit, valued the opinion of
his fellow lawyer and fellow thinker. He valued praise from almost any
source, though this was a hidden thirst. Where he loved, there he valued
good opinion most; but also he strongly desired that his enemies should
think highly of him. To be justly feared was one thing, to be contemned
quite another. Apparently Ludwell Cary neither feared nor contemned. As,
a few days before on the Justice's Bench, Rand had wondered if he were
going to hate Cary, so now, lying in the quiet blue room, weakened by
pain and loss of blood, softened by exquisite kindness, and touched by
approbation, he wondered if he were going to like Cary. Something of the
old charm, the old appeal, the old recognition, with no mean envy, of a
golden nature moving in harmonious circumstance, stirred in Lewis Rand's
breast. He sighed and lay still, his eyes upon the pansies on the table
beside his bed. The moon clock ticked; the sunshine entered softly
through the veil of poplar leaves; upon the bough that brushed the
window, a cicada shrilled of the approaching summer. Rand put out his
uninjured arm and took a pansy from the bowl. The little face, brave and
friendly, looked at him from the white counterpane where he laid it. He
studied it for a while, touching it gently, with the thought in his mind
that Jacqueline might have gathered the pansies, and then he left it
there, took up his papers, and turned to the argument which must hang
Fitch.




CHAPTER VIII