y from Plashers
Mead before you intended. I meant to write you a long letter full
of everything, but there isn't any more to say.

PAULINE.

Her mother found her sobbing over her desk that was full of childish
things, and asked what was the matter.

"I've broken off my engagement," and wearily she told her some of the
reasons, but never any reason that might have seemed to cast the least
blame on him. Next morning very early came a note for her mother from
Guy, in which he said he was leaving Plashers Mead in a couple of hours,
and begged that she would not let Pauline be the one to go away.

EPIGRAPH

GUY

Guy could not make the effort to fight the doom upon their love declared
by Pauline in her letter. He felt that if he did not acquiesce he would
go mad; a deadness struck at him that he fancied was a wonderful sense
of relief, and, hurriedly packing a few things, he went in pursuit of
his friend Comeragh, in case it might not even now be too late to go to
Persia. However, though he did not manage to be in time for Sir George
Gascony, his friend secured him a job on some committee that was being
organized in Macedonia by enthusiastic Liberals. His previous experience
there was recommendation enough, and after he had seen his father,
acquired his outfit, and settled up everything at Plashers Mead by means
of Maurice Avery, early in September he set out Eastward.

In Rome Guy picked up Michael Fane, who was on the point of starting for
the Benedictine monastery at Cava. Having a few days to spare before he
went on to Brindisi, he agreed to spend the time with Michael tramping
in the sun along the Parthenopean shore.

"I can't understand what consolation you expect to find by shutting
yourself up with a lot of frowsty monks," said Guy, fretfully.

"Nor can I understand when just at the moment you have been dealt the
blow that should at last determine if you are to be an artist," retorted
Michael--"I can't understand why you choose that exact moment to go and
be futile in Macedonia."

"Do you think I would be an artist now, even if I could?" asked Guy,
fiercely. "How I hate such a point of view. No, no; I have made myself
miserable, and I have made some one else miserable because I thought I
wanted to be an artist. But never, never shall that old jejune ambition
be gratified now."

"You'll never try to write anything more?"

"Nothing," said Guy.

"Then what has all this been for?