They were half-way to the door when Mr. Jarrott paused.
"And, of course, you'll go to New York? I didn't think it necessary to ask you if you cared to make the change."
With the question straight before him, Strange knew that an answer must be given. He understood now how it is that there are men and women who find it worth their while to thrust their heads into lions' mouths.
"Yes, sir, of course," he answered, quietly; and they went on to join the ladies.
Part III
Miriam
XIII
On a day when Evie Colfax was nearing Southampton, and Herbert Strange sailing northward from the Rio de la Plata, up the coast of Brazil, Miriam Strange, in New York, was standing in the embrasure of a large bay-window of a fifth-floor apartment, in that section of Fifty-ninth Street that skirts the southern limit of Central Park. Her conversation with the man beside her turned on subjects which both knew to be only preliminary to the business that had brought him in. He inquired about her voyage home from Germany, and expressed his sympathy with "poor Wayne" on the hopelessness and finality of the Wiesbaden oculist's report. Taking a lighter tone, he said, with a gesture toward the vast expanse of autumn color on which they were looking down:
"You didn't see anything finer than that in Europe. Come now!"
"No, I didn't—not in its own way. As long as I can look at this I'm almost reconciled to living in a town."