He had won the contest. He was no longer the fairly successful architect, bitter, in lonely moments, at forgotten dreams. He was "made." Everything had changed the moment he tore the letter in anger at the sameness of things. There was no doubt about that. Nothing would be the same any more. He would have to live in Chicago. The building would take several years and he would have to be on hand all the time, if he was to get all there was to it. He would have to leave Jean. He would no longer be able to ring her up when he wanted to. There would be no more long walks. No more dusky hours at the little French roadhouse, hours when the need of parting drew them so near together, Jean would no longer be there in the background of his life, so that he always felt that he could reach out and touch her.
Gregory jammed his pipe between his teeth and began walking up and down. Was there never a spot in life, never one short hour that was perfect? He saw the future that might have been, had he and Jean belonged legally to each other. Love, success, accomplishment. He and Jean—and Puck.
Gregory's face was drawn when he sat down at his desk again. He drove his mind through the day's work as if it had been a slave.
At four he closed his desk and went to meet Jean. She was already at their table, sitting partly turned to watch a group in the large room beyond. She was smiling, and when she caught sight of him the smile deepened.
"Do look at that old peacock over there. I have been watching her for the last five minutes and she's never stopped preening once."
He had come, still uncertain how he was going to tell Jean, and she asked him to look at an old woman. But he turned and then he laughed too.
"Well, what's happened exciting to-day?"
"Oh, nothing much. Nothing that will surprise you terribly."
Jean put down the teapot. "Gregory Allen, out with it!"
Gregory seized the alternative of banter, which had not occurred to him before.