unwonted exercise was an outlet for the pent-up
energy her departure had thwarted; and presently his body was warm with a
physical heat that found its counterpart in a delicious, emotional glow
of anticipation, of exultant satisfaction. After all, he could not expect
to travel too fast with her. Had he not at least gained a signal victory?
When he remembered her lips--which she had indubitably given him!--he
increased his stride, and in what seemed an incredibly brief time he had
recrossed the bridge, covered the long residential blocks of Warren
Street, and gained his own door.

The house was quiet, the children having gone to bed, and he groped his
way through the dark parlour to his den, turning on the electric switch,
sinking into an armchair, and lighting a cigar. He liked this room of
his, which still retained something of that flavour of a refuge and
sanctuary it had so eminently possessed in the now forgotten days of
matrimonial conflict. One of the few elements of agreement he had held in
common with the late Mrs. Ditmar was a similarity of taste in household
decoration, and they had gone together to a great emporium in Boston to
choose the furniture and fittings. The lamp in the centre of the table
was a bronze column supporting a hemisphere of heavy red and emerald
glass, the colours woven into an intricate and bizarre design, after the
manner of the art nouveau--so the zealous salesman had informed them.
Cora Ditmar, when exhibiting this lamp to admiring visitors, had
remembered the phrase, though her pronunciation of it, according to the
standard of the Sorbonne, left something to be desired. The table and
chairs, of heavy, shiny oak marvellously and precisely carved by
machines, matched the big panels of the wainscot. The windows were high
in the wall, thus preventing any intrusion from the clothes-yard on which
they looked. The bookcases, protected by leaded panes, held countless
volumes of the fiction from which Cora Ditmar had derived her knowledge
of the great world outside of Hampton, together with certain sets she had
bought, not only as ornaments, but with a praiseworthy view to future
culture,--such as Whitmarsh's Library of the Best Literature. These
volumes, alas, were still uncut; but some of the pages of the novels--if
one cared to open them--were stained with chocolate. The steam radiator
was a decoration in itself, the fireplace set in the red and yellow tiles
that made the hearth. Above the