"Of course," resumed David, "it may be that he was too stunned to act. I
believe that the laughter--_her_ laughter--acted upon him like a
powerful drug. Instead of plunging him into the passion of a murderous
desire for vengeance it curiously enough anesthetized his emotions. For
hours he heard that laughter. I believe he will never forget it. He
wandered the streets all that night. It was in New York, and of course
he passed many people. But he did not see them. When morning came he was
on Fifth Avenue many miles from his home. He wandered downtown in a
constantly growing human stream whose noise and bustle and many-keyed
voice acted on him as a tonic. For the first time he asked himself what
he would do. Stronger and stronger grew the desire in him to return, to
face again that situation in his home. I believe that he would have done
this--I believe that the red blood in him would have meted out its own
punishment had he not turned just in time, and at the right place. He
found himself in front of The Little Church Around the Corner, nestling
in its hiding-place just off the Avenue. He remembered its restful
quiet, the coolness of its aisles and alcoves. He was exhausted, and he
went in. He sat down facing the chancel, and as his eyes became
accustomed to the gloom he saw that the broad, low dais in front of the
organ was banked with great masses of hydrangeas. There had been a
wedding, probably the evening before. My friend told me of the
thickening that came in his throat, of the strange, terrible throb in
his heart as he sat there alone--the only soul in the church--and stared
at those hydrangeas. Hydrangeas had been their own wedding flower,
Father. And then----"

For the first time there was something like a break in the younger man's
voice.

"My friend thought he was alone," he went on. "But some one had come out