He went home that night in a queer mood. He was hurt and he was angry, but depressed he was not. He went up to the room he had occupied for years and years—a room which, like his face, showed no trace of the spirit that possessed it. He sat down to unlace his boots and put on his slippers. When that was done, he filled another pipe.
“Perhaps it’s just as well,” he reflected, with a philosophy Gina would not have appreciated. “A wife’s a very unsettling thing. Now I’ll go on just the same!”
And, if you will believe it, the next Saturday afternoon he bought a box of blocks, and a doll’s cradle, and the familiar package of Scotch kisses, and with perfect composure set off for Staten Island.
“There’s no reason at all for a quarrel,” he thought. “To be sure, I’ve nothing against the poor woman. I’m not one to change.”
There was a heavy fog, and the boat was late. He stood downstairs, close to the gates. He was in no sort of hurry. Indeed, he rather enjoyed the little stir of excitement caused by the fog.
He heard people about him saying it was the worst they had seen in years, that a small boat had been run down a few hours before, that steamers were held up. He liked the din from the bay, the whistles low or shrill, the clamor of the bells, the blasting wail of a great foghorn.
There was, unfortunately, no way in which he could verbally express his scorn for this excitement, and his own miraculous coolness and detachment. He could look it, however, and more than ever he assumed the aspect of a wooden image. For some reason this inspired the confidence of a fellow traveler.
“Do you think there’s any danger?” asked an anxious voice.
He turned, intending to answer somewhat loftily, but he was utterly disarmed at sight of the questioner. Indeed, he at once felt that there might well be danger. He removed his hat with ceremony.
“Nothing to worry about,” he assured her gravely.