The Salt Of The Earth by Fred M. White

Douglas Denne had dined, but his dinner had afforded him no consolation. He was vexed and disappointed, and these, usually, were emotions which he did not allow himself to indulge in. The Curacoa he was sipping had no flavor. He must really change his cigar merchant. He was annoyed, too, because he had permitted outside influences to trouble him. Really, why should he worry? Why should he feel upset because Adela Burton had fulfilled expectations, and become engaged to Mark Callader? It had been the one theme of conversation during the past fortnight. The marriage was discussed in the clubs and Callader was deemed to be an exceedingly lucky man. There were armchair philosophers who wondered what Adela could see in him. They pondered thoughtfully the decrees of Fate which allowed men of the coarse, animal type to marry the most beautiful women. The girl was an heiress, too, which made the thing all the more inexplicable.

Denne was not only irritated, but he was, perhaps, also inclined to be jealous. He had always admired Adela. She possessed to the full the qualities that peculiarly attracted him. Her nameless style of beauty came very near to realising his high ideal. He had thought a good deal, too, of what Vanstone had said, and had not forgotten his promise that Adela should not marry Callader. He refused to admit that he was in love with her himself, but there were moments when the conviction was forced upon him.