he river in
front. Neither did she move. At length he said in a cold voice, without
moving his head:

"Here's Chelsea Pier."

She got up and walked to the rail amidships. He followed. The steamer
moored. A section of rail slid aside. The pier-keeper gave a hand to
Marguerite, who jumped on to the pier. George hesitated. The pier-keeper
challenged him testily:

"Now then, are ye coming ashore or aren't ye?"

George could not move. The pier-keeper banged the rail to close the gap,
and cast off the ropes, and the steamer resumed her voyage.

A minute later George saw Marguerite slowly crossing the gangway from
the pier to the embankment. There she went! She was about to be
swallowed up in the waste of human dwellings, in the measureless and
tragic expanse of the indifferent town.... She was gone. Curse her, with
her reliability! She was too reliable. He knew that. Her father could
rely on her. Curse her, with her outrageous, incredibly cruel, and
unjust sense of duty! She had held him once. Once the sight of her had
made him turn hot and cold. Once the prospect of life without her had
seemed unbearable. He had loved her instinctively and intensely. He now
judged and condemned her. Her beauty, her sweetness, her belief in him,
her reliability--these qualities were neutralized by her sense of duty,
awful, uncompromising, blind to fundamental justice. The affair was
over. If he knew her, he knew also himself. The affair was over. He was
in despair. His mind went round and round like a life-prisoner
exercising in an enclosed yard. No escape! Till then, he had always
believed in his luck. Infantile delusion! He was now aware that destiny
had struck him a blow once for all. But of course he did not perceive
that he was too young, not ripe, for such a blow. The mark of destiny
was on his features, and it was out of place there.... He had lost
Marguerite. And what had he lost? What was there in her? She was not
brilliant; she had no position; she had neither learning nor wit. He
could remember nothing remarkable that they had ever said to each other.
Indeed, their conversations had generally been rather banal. But he
could remember how they had felt, how he had felt, in their hours
together.... The sensation communicated to him by her hand when he had
drawn off her glove in the tremendous silence of the hansom! Marvellous,
exquisite, magical sensation that no words of his could render! And
there had been others as rare. Thes