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 had fatigued his mind. He felt the difference between those morning fancies and this talk of the merely sordid problems of life. He said: "Well, when shall I see you again?"

"You're not going?" she cried, as he stood up.

"I ought—to go back. I have things to do."

"Oh please don't leave me like this! What am I to do? You haven't told me what to do!"

"I wish I knew. I don't seem to be able"

"But you must," she insisted, giving way to her panic. "What am I to do? I must get something. I can't go You don't want me to go home, do you?" He shook his head, looking dully at the carpet. "I don't seem to be able"

"You had plans enough once," she cried. "The day you got me into trouble with Mrs. Kimball"

The memory of that afternoon under the pine returned to him with bitterness. "Yes," he said. "But it was different then."

"How was it different?"

"You were different."

"Thank you!" There were indignant tears in her eyes. "I might have expected You Oh!" She turned with a gesture that recalled to him their parting at the gate—on the day she had told him of her quarrel with Mrs. Kimball—and she was out of the room before he could speak. He followed her to the hall in time to see her reach the landing of the floor above. He put on his hat and went out to the street.

There he found a loneliness of soul so calm and so self-centred that the whole city seemed to hush to let