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“You’ve decided?” he said.

“Of course!”

“All right! Good-bye, then! You promised to cleave to me through thick and thin ’till death did us part.’ I’ll have no halfway business,” and he turned on his heel, and without looking back he pushed his way through the crowd, which chatted and fussed and never even noted the passing of a broken heart.

The pretty creature watched him out of sight.

There was a humorous pout on her lips. But she seemed so sure of her man! He would come back, of course–when she called him–if she ever did! Probably she liked him better at that moment than she had liked him in two years. He had opposed her. He had defied her power over him. He had once more become a man to conquer–if she ever had time!

But just now there was something more important. That train! It was three minutes to the schedule time.

As he disappeared into the crowd she drew a breath of relief, and hurried out of the waiting room and pushed her way to the platform, along which she hurried to the parlor car, where she seated herself comfortably, as if no man with a broken life had been set down that day against her record.

To be sure, she could not quite rid herself of thoughts of his face, but the recollection rather flattered her, and did not in the least prevent her noticing the looks of admiration with which two men on the opposite side of the car were regarding her.

Once or twice she glanced out of the window, apparently alternately expecting and dreading to see her stalwart husband come sprinting down the platform for the kiss he had refused.

He didn’t come!

She was relieved as the train started–yet she hated to feel he could really let her go like that!

She never guessed at the depth of suffering she had brought him. How could she appreciate what she could never feel? She never dreamed that as the train pulled out into the storm he stood at the end of the station, and watched it slowly round the curve under the bridge and pass out of sight. No one was near to see him turn aside, and rest his arms against the brick wall, to bury his face in them, and sob like a child, utterly oblivious of the storm that beat upon him.

* * * * *

And he sat down.

“Come on,” yelled the Youngster, “where’s the claque?” And he began to applaud furiously.

“Oh, if there is a claque, the rest of us don’t need to exert ourselves,” said the Lawyer, indolently.

“But I say,” asked the Youngster, after the Journalist had made his best bow. “I AM disappointed. Was that all?”

“My goodness,” commented the Doctor, as he lighted a fresh cigar. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Not for me,” replied the Youngster. “I want to know about her debut. Was she a success?”

“Of course,” answered the Journalist. “That sort always is.”

“And I want to know,” insisted the Youngster, “what became of him?”

“Why,” ejaculated the Sculptor, “of course he cut his big brown throat!”

“Not a bit of it,” said the Critic. “He probably went up to New York, and hung round the stage door.”

“Until she called in the police, and had him arrested as a common nuisance,” added the Lawyer.

“I’ll bet my microscope he didn’t,” laughed the Doctor.

“And you won’t lose your lens,” replied the Journalist. “He never did a blooming thing–that is, he didn’t if he existed.”

“Oh, my eyes,” said the Youngster. “I am disappointed again. I thought that was a simon-pure newspaper yarn–one of your reporter’s dodges–real journalese!”

“She is true enough,” answered the Journalist, “and her feet are true, and so is her red hair, and, unless she is a liar, and most actresses are, so is he and her origin, but as for the way she cut him out–well, I had to make that up. It is better than any of the six tales she told as many interviewers, in strict secrecy, in the days when she was collecting hearts and jewels and midnight suppers in New York.”