He would get over the prick, she knew.

It might help him in the end, really.
"No, I suppose not," he replied simply, as he sank back on his pillow and turned his bruised face toward the wall.
For some moments he lay in deep thought.

The last half-hour in the arbor under the palms came back to him; the tones of Ruth's voice; the casual way in which she returned his devouring glance.

She didn't love him; never had loved him; wouldn't ever love him.

Anybody could carry another fellow out on his back; was done every day by firemen and life-savers,--everybody, in fact, who happened to be around when their services were most needed.