Gregory's chin dropped to his breast and he walked up and down like an old man.
Jean with a child. A child of hers and his. Jean and their child, alone, one thousand miles away. Another human being, part of himself, just as Puck was a part.
Another Puck. The best of Jean and of himself, a fearless little Puck, whom he would see at long intervals, scarcely know, whom he could not acknowledge, but who would always be near, tearing at his heart, claiming his love. Gregory's lips went white.
"My God," he whispered, "I wish I had never seen you."
Then he began walking again, up and down, up and down.
The stars were white in the morning sky when he went back and sat down once more beside the table. He put the three sheets of Jean's letter carefully together and tore them across many times. Then on a single sheet he wrote:
"I am not brave enough. I haven't the courage. I cannot pay the price."
He took the torn bits of Jean's letter and his own and went out. He dropped his into the green box on the corner. The chill wind of dawn seized Jean's and carried them away.
He closed the front door softly and went slowly up the stairs, past Puck's door and Margaret's, back into his own room. The pen was still wet with ink. Gregory opened the window and threw it into the street. In a few moments an early milk wagon clattered along and scrunched it into the dust.