“I love you,” he muttered.
“You’ll forget me. It’s all just a Broadway dream, George. Think of it like that. Broadway’s got you now, but you don’t really belong. You’re not like me. It’s not in your blood, so’s you can’t get it out. It’s the chickens and roses you want really. Just a Broadway dream. That’s what it is. George, when I was a kid, I remember crying and crying for a lump of candy in the window of a store till one of my brothers up and bought it for me just to stop the racket. Gee! For about a minute I was the busiest thing that ever happened, eating away. And then it didn’t seem to interest me no more. Broadway’s like that for you, George. You go back to the girl and the cows and all of it. It’ll hurt some, I guess, but I reckon you’ll be glad you did.”
She stooped swiftly, and kissed him on the forehead.
“I’ll miss you, dear,” she said, softly, and was gone.
Rutherford sat on, motionless. Outside, the blackness changed to grey, and the grey to white. He got up. He felt very stiff and cold.
“A Broadway dream!” he muttered.
He went to the mantelpiece and took up the photograph. He carried it to the window where he could see it better.
A shaft of sunlight pierced the curtains and fell upon it.
The End