"There is a great deal of trouble in this world," the professor said to him, simply, after watching him a few minutes one day. "I should like to know what you are carrying with you to Germany."
"I am carrying nothing," Arbuthnot answered. "That is my share."
They were smoking their cigars together, and through the blue haze floating about him the professor looked out with a sad face.
"Do you," he said,—"do you leave anything behind you?"
"Everything," said Arbuthnot. The professor made a disturbed movement.
"Perhaps," he said, "this was a mistake. Perhaps it would be better if you remained. It is not yet too late"—
"Yes, it is," Arbuthnot interposed, with a faint laugh. "And nothing would induce me to remain."
It was on the occasion of a reception given by Mrs. Sylvestre that he was to make his last appearance in the social world before his departure. He had laid his plans in such a manner that, having made his adieus at the end of the evening, half an hour after retiring from the parlors he would be speeding away from Washington on his way to New York.
"It will be a good exit," he said. "And the eye of the unfeeling world being upon me, I shall be obliged to conceal my emotions, and you will be spared the spectacle of my anguish."