and Adelaide and Dory were off for
New York and Europe; but he did not find this out until he reached Saint
X. The man who gave him that final and overwhelming news noticed no
change in his face, though looking for signs of emotion; nor did Ross
leave him until he had confirmed the impression of a heart at ease. Far
along the path between the Country Club and Point Helen he struck into
the woods and, with only the birds and the squirrels as witnesses, gave
way to his feelings.

Now, now that she was irrevocably gone, he knew. He had made a hideous
mistake; he had been led on by his vanity, led on and on until the trap
was closed and sprung; and it was too late. He sat there on a fallen tree
with his head aching as if about to explode, with eyes, dry and burning
and a great horror of heart-hunger sitting before him and staring at him.
In their sufferings from defeated desire the selfish expiate their sins.

He had forgotten his engagement to Theresa Howland, the wedding only
two weeks away. It suddenly burst in upon his despair like a shout
of derisive laughter. "I'll _not_ marry her!" he cried aloud. "I
_can't_ do it!"

But even as he spoke he knew that he could, and would, and must. He had
been a miserable excuse for a lover to Theresa; but Theresa had never had
love. All the men who had approached her with "intentions" had been
fighting hard against their own contempt of themselves for seeking a wife
for the sake of her money, and their efforts at love-making had been tame
and lame; but Theresa, knowing no better, simply thought men not up to
the expectations falsely raised by the romances and the songs. She
believed _she_ could not but get as good a quality of love as there was
going; and Ross, with his delightful, aristocratic indifference, was
perfectly satisfactory. Theresa had that thrice-armored self-complacence
which nature so often relentingly gives, to more than supply the lack of
the charms withheld. She thought she was fascinating beyond any woman of
her acquaintance, indeed, of her time. She spent hours in admiring
herself, in studying out poses for her head and body and arms, especially
her arms, which she regarded as nature's last word on that kind of
beauty--a not wholly fanciful notion, as they were not bad, if a bit too
short between elbow and wrist, and rather fat at the shoulders. She
always thought and, on several occasions in bursts of confidence, had
imparted to girl friends that "no man who h