"A hell of a mess," replied the young man.
"Of course she'll come round. But you've got to do your part."
"It's settled," said Norman. And he threw his cigar into the fireplace. "Good night."
"Hold on!" cried Burroughs. "Before you go, you must see Josie alone and talk with her."
"It would be useless," said Norman. "You know her."
Burroughs laid his hand friendlily but heavily upon the young man's shoulder. "This outburst of nonsense might cost you two young people your happiness for life. This is no time for jealousy and false pride. Wait a moment."
"Very well," said Norman. "But it is useless." He understood Josephine now—he who had become a connoisseur of love. He knew that her vanity-founded love had vanished.
Burroughs disappeared in the direction his daughter had taken. Norman waited several minutes—long enough slowly to smoke a cigarette. Then he went into the hall and put on his coat with deliberation. No one appeared, not even a servant. He went out into the street.
In the morning papers he found the announcement of the withdrawal of the invitations—and from half a column to several columns of comment, much of it extremely unflattering to him.