entirely of late as though he had been living in a distant city. When
he had met them he had found their company uninteresting and
unprofitable. He had wondered how he had ever cared for that sort of
thing, and where had been the pleasure of it. Was he going back now to
the gossip of that window, to the heavy discussions of traps and
horses, to late breakfasts and early suppers? Must he listen to their
congratulations on his being one of them again, and must he guess at
their whispered conjectures as to how soon it would be before he again
took up the chains and harness of their fashion? He struck the
pavement sharply with his stick. No, he was not going back.

She had taught him to find amusement and occupation in many things
that were better and higher than any pleasures or pursuits he had
known before, and he could not give them up. He had her to thank for
that at least. And he would give her credit for it too, and
gratefully. He would always remember it, and he would show in his way
of living the influence and the good effects of these three months in
which they had been continually together.

He had reached Forty-second Street now. Well, it was over with, and he
would get to work at something or other. This experience had shown him
that he was not meant for marriage; that he was intended to live
alone. Because, if he found that a girl as lovely as she undeniably
was palled on him after three months, it was evident that he would
never live through life with any other one. Yes, he would always be a
bachelor. He had lived his life, had told his story at the age of
twenty-five, and would wait patiently for the end, a marked and gloomy
man. He would travel now and see the world. He would go to that hotel
in Cairo she was always talking about, where they were to have gone on
their honeymoon; or he might strike further into Africa, and come back