Ardly went out into the crisp sunshine, a rising glow in his face. He walked briskly, with an almost impatient buoyancy. Near Thirtieth Street he stopped before the window-case and looked in.
From a square of gray card-board Mariana smiled at him, the aureole of her hair defined against a dark background. For a moment he stared blankly, and then an expression of hunger crept into his eyes—the hunger of one who has never been satisfied.
She was fairer, older, graver, as Nevins had said. There was a wistful droop in her pose, and in the splendor of her half-closed eyes there was something the old Mariana had never known—something left by the gathering of experience and the memory of tears.
He turned abruptly away, his face darkening and the buoyancy failing his step. He knew suddenly that the world was very stale and flat, and politics unprofitable. He crossed to Broadway and a few blocks farther down met Father Algarcife, who stopped him.
"Nevins was talking to me about you this morning," he said. "And so you are taking the matter seriously."
"As seriously as one takes—castor-oil."
The other smiled.
"Why, I thought you liked the chase."
"Like it! My dear sir, life is not exactly a question of one's likes or dislikes."
Father Algarcife looked at him with intentness.