Olaf had lighted in her.

"But you are going to marry Anthony."

"Yes," she said, "I am going to marry Anthony. I am going to flirt and
smoke cigarettes and let him--flirt--when I might have been a--goddess."

It was after breakfast on the same day that a letter came to me,
delivered into my own hands by messenger. It was from Olaf, and he left
it to me whether Nancy should see it. It covered many pages and it shook
my soul, but I did not show it to Nancy.

There were nights after that when I found it hard to sleep, nights in
which I thought of Olaf sailing toward the hidden land, holding in his
heart a hope which it was in my power to crown with realization or dash
to the ground. Yet I had Nancy's happiness to think of, and, in a sense,
Anthony's. It seemed almost incredible that I must carry, too, on my
heart, the burden of the happiness of Olaf Thoresen.

When Anthony came back, he and Nancy were caught in a net of
engagements, and I saw very little of them. Of course they romped in now
and then with their own particular crowd, and treated me, as it were,
to a cross-section of modern life. Except for two things, I should have
judged that Nancy had put away all thoughts of Olaf, but these two
things were significant. She had stopped smoking, and she no longer
touched her cheeks with artificial bloom.

Anthony's amazement, when he offered her a cigarette and she refused,
had in it a touch of irritation. "But, my dear girl, why not?"