was wondering at his
coolness; and he was conning over, with a grim, sardonic kink in his
twisted smile, the needless precautions taken by the dapper little
manager in his fear of Whitaker's righteous wrath. For Whitaker had no
intention of interfering in any way. He conceived it a possibility that
his conge might have been more kindly given him, but ... he had received
it, and he was not slow to recognize it as absolute and without appeal.
The thing was finished. The play was over, so far as concerned his part
therein. He had no doubt played it poorly; but at least his exit would
not lack a certain quality of dignity. Whitaker promised himself that.

He thought it really astonishing, his coolness. He analyzed his
psychological processes with a growing wonder and with as much, if less
definite, resentment. He would not have thought it credible of himself.
Search as he would, he could discover no rankling indignation, no
smouldering rage threatening to flame at the least breath of
provocation, not even what he might have most confidently looked forward
to--the sickening writhings of self-love mortally wounded and impotent
to avenge itself: nothing but some self-contempt, that he had allowed
himself to be so carried away by infatuation for an ignoble woman, and a
cynic humour that made it possible for him to derive a certain
satisfaction from contemplating the completeness of this final
revelation of herself.

However, he had more important things to claim his attention than the
spectacle of a degraded soul making public show of its dishonour.

He halted by the window to look out. Over the withered tree-tops of
Bryant Square, set against the rich turquoise of that late autumnal sky,
a gigantic sign-board heralded the news of perfidy to an unperceptive
world that bustled on, heedless of Jules Max, ignorant (largely) of the
existence of Hugh Whitaker, unconcerned with Sara Law save as she
employed herself for its amusement.

After all, the truth was secret and like to stay so, jealously husbanded
in four bosoms at most. Max would guard it as he would a system for
winning at roulette; Mary Whitaker might well be trusted never to
declare herself; Ember was as secret as the grave....

Returning to the breakfast table, he took up the paper, turned to the
shipping news and ran his eye down the list of scheduled sailings:
nothing for Friday; his pick of half a dozen boats listed to sail
Saturday.

The telephone enabled him