whether
he had saluted her or merely rubbed his forehead. And there was the
added benefit that any third person who might chance to look from
a window, or from a passing carriage, would not think that he was
receiving a snub, because he did not intend to lift his hat, but, timing
the gesture properly, would in fact actually rub his forehead. These
were the hasty plans which occupied his thoughts until he was within
about fifty feet of her--when he ceased to have either plans or
thoughts, he had kept his eyes from looking full at her until then, and
as he saw her, thus close at hand, and coming nearer, a regret that was
dumfounding took possession of him. For the first time he had the sense
of having lost something of overwhelming importance.

Lucy did not keep to the right, but came straight to meet him, smiling,
and with her hand offered to him.

"Why--you--" he stammered, as he took it. "Haven't you--" What he meant
to say was, "Haven't you heard?"

"Haven't I what?" she asked; and he saw that Eugene had not yet told
her.

"Nothing!" he gasped. "May I--may I turn and walk with you a little
way?"

"Yes, indeed!" she said cordially.

He would not have altered what had been done: he was satisfied with all
that--satisfied that it was right, and that his own course was right.
But he began to perceive a striking inaccuracy in some remarks he had
made to his mother. Now when he had put matters in such shape that even
by the relinquishment of his "ideals of life" he could not have Lucy,
knew that he could never have her, and knew that when Eugene told
her the history of yesterday he could not have a glance or word even
friendly from her--now when he must in good truth "give up all idea
of Lucy," he was amazed that he could have used such words as "no
particular sacrifice," and believed them when he said them! She had
looked never in his life so bewitchingly pretty as she did today; and as
he walked beside her he was sure that she was the most exquisite thing
in the world.

"Lucy," he said huskily, "I want to tell you something. Something that
matters."

"I hope it's a lively something then," she said; and laughed. "Papa's
been so glum to-day he's scarcely spoken to me. Your Uncle George
Amberson came to see him an hour ago and they shut themselves up in the
library, and your uncle looked as glum as papa. I'd be glad if you'll
tell me a funny story, George."

"Well, it may seem one to you," he said bitterly, "Jus