The vision passed—music ceased—the dance was ended. Sentiment vanished—reason reigned once more.
He was a fool! a fool! to think of her, to dream of the past, even. But it is pleasant, sometimes, to be a fool—where a beautiful woman is concerned, and only one’s self to pay the piper.
XIV
THE SYMPHONY IN BLUE
Macloud arrived the next day, bringing for his host a great batch of mail, which had accumulated at the Club.
“I thought of it at the last moment—when I was starting for the station, in fact,” he remarked. “The clerk said he had no instructions for forwarding, so I just poked it in my bag and brought it along. Stupid of me not to think of it sooner. Why didn’t you mention it? I can understand why you didn’t leave an address, but not why I shouldn’t forward it.”
“I didn’t care, when I left—and I don’t care much, now—but I’m obliged, just the same!” said Croyden. “It’s something to do; the most exciting incident of the day, down here, is the arrival of the mail. The people wait for it, with bated breath. I am getting in the way, too, though I don’t get much.... I never did have any extensive correspondence, even in Northumberland—so this is just circulars and such trash.”
He took the package, which Macloud handed him, and tossed it on the desk.