something of overwhelming importance.
Lucy did not keep to the right, but came straight to meet him, smiling, and with her hand offered to him.
“Why—you—” he stammered, as he took it. “Haven't you—” What he meant to say was, “Haven't you heard?”
“Haven't I what?” she asked; and he saw that Eugene had not yet told her.
“Nothing!” he gasped. “May I—may I turn and walk with you a little way?”
“Yes, indeed!” she said cordially.
He would not have altered what had been done: he was satisfied with all that—satisfied that it was right, and that his own course was right. But he began to perceive a striking inaccuracy in some remarks he had made to his mother. Now when he had put matters in such shape that even by the relinquishment of his “ideals of life” he could not have Lucy, knew that he could never have her, and knew that when Eugene told her the history of yesterday he could not have a glance or word even friendly from her—now when he must in good truth “give up all idea of Lucy,” he was amazed that he could have used such words as “no particular sacrifice,” and believed them when he said them! She had looked never in his life so bewitchingly pretty as she did today; and as he walked beside her he was sure that she was the most exquisite thing in the world.
“Lucy,” he said huskily, “I want to tell you something. Something that matters.”
“I hope it's a lively something then,” she said; and laughed. “Papa's been so glum to-day he's scarcely spoken to me. Your Uncle George Amberson came to see him an hour ago and they shut themselves up in the library, and your uncle looked as glum as papa. I'd be glad if you'll tell me a funny story, George.”
“Well, it may seem one to you,” he said bitterly, “Just to begin with: when you went away you didn't let me know; not even a word—not a line—”
Her manner persisted in being inconsequent. “Why, no,” she said. “I just trotted off for some visits.”
“Well, at least you might have—”
“Why, no,” she said again briskly. “Don't you remember, George? We'd had a grand quarrel, and didn't speak to each other all the way home from a long, long drive! So, as we couldn't play together like good children, of course it was plain that we oughtn't to play at all.”
“Play!” he cried.
“Yes. What I mean is that we'd come to the point where it was time to quit playing—well, what we were playing.”
“At being lovers, you mean, don't you?”
“Something like that,” she said lightly. “For us two, playing at being lovers was just the same as playing at cross-purposes. I had all the purposes, and that gave you all the crossness: things weren't getting along at all. It was absurd!”
“Well, have it your own way,” he said. “It needn't have been absurd.”
“No, it couldn't help but be!” she informed him cheerfully. “The way I am and the way you are, it couldn't ever be anything else. So what was the use?”
“I don't know,” he sighed, and his sigh was abysmal. “But what I wanted to tell you is this: when you went away, you didn't let me know and didn't care how or when I heard it, but I'm not like that with you. This time, I'm going away. That's what I wanted to tell you. I'm going away tomorrow night—indefinitely.”
She nodded sunnily. “That's nice for you. I hope you'll have ever so jolly a time, George.”
“I don't expect to have a particularly jolly time.”
“Well, then,” she laughed, “if I were you I don't think I'd go.”
It seemed impossible to impress this distracting creature, to make her serious. “Lucy,” he said desperately, “this is our last walk together.”
“Evidently!” she said, “if you're going away tomorrow night.”
“Lucy—this may be the last time I'll see you—ever—ever in my life.”
At that she looked at him quickly, across her shoulder, but she smiled as brightly as before, and with the same cordial inconsequence: “Oh, I can hardly think that!” she said. “And of course I'd be awfully sorry to think it. You're not moving away, are you, to live?”
“No.”
“And even if you were, of course you'd be coming back to visit your relatives every now and then.”
“I don't know when I'm coming back. Mother and I are starting to-morrow night for a trip around the world.”
At this she did look thoughtful. “Your mother is going with you?”
“Good heavens!” he groaned. “Lucy, doesn't it make any difference to you that I am going?”
At this her cordial smile instantly appeared again. “Yes, of course,” she said. “I'm sure I'll miss you ever so much. Are you to be gone long?”
He stared at her wanly. “I told you indefinitely,” he said. “We've made no plans—at all—for coming back.”
“That does sound like a long trip!” she exclaimed admiringly. “Do you plan to be travelling all the time, or will you stay in some one place the greater part of it? I think it would be lovely to—”
“Lucy!”
He halted; and she stopped with him. They had come to a corner at the edge of the “business section” of the city, and people were everywhere about them, brushing against them, sometimes, in passing.
“I can't stand this,” George said, in a low voice. “I'm just about ready to go in this drug-store here, and ask the clerk for something to keep me from dying in my tracks! It's quite a shock, you see, Lucy!”
“What is?”
“To find out certainly, at last, how deeply you've cared for me! To see how much difference this makes to you! By Jove, I have mattered to you!”
Her cordial smile was tempered now with good-nature. “George!” She laughed indulgently. “Surely you don't want me to do pathos on a downtown corner!”
“You wouldn't 'do pathos' anywhere!”
“Well—don't you think pathos is generally rather fooling?”
“I can't stand this any longer,” he said. “I can't! Good-bye, Lucy!” He took her hand. “It's good-bye—I think it's good-bye for good, Lucy!”
“Good-bye! I do hope you'll have the most splendid trip.” She gave his hand a cordial little grip, then released it lightly. “Give my love to your mother. Good-bye!”
He turned heavily away, and a moment later glanced back over his shoulder. She had not gone on, but stood watching him, that same casual, cordial smile on her face to the very last; and now, as he looked back, she emphasized
