He found Stewart gone, and Marie feverishly overhauling her few belongings by the salon lamp. She turned to him a face still stained with tears but radiant with hope.
“Peter,” she said gravely, “I must prepare my outfit. I go to America.”
“With Stewart?”
“Alone, Peter, to work, to be very good, to be something. I am very happy, although—Peter, may I kiss you?”
“Certainly,” said Peter, and took her caress gravely, patting her thin shoulder. His thoughts were in the garden with Harmony, who had cared enough to come back.
“Life,” said Peter soberly, “life is just one damned thing after another, isn't it?”
But Marie was anxiously examining the hem of a skirt.
The letter from Anita reached Stewart the following morning. She said:—
“I have been thinking things over, Walter, and I am going to hurt you very much—but not, believe me, without hurting myself. Perhaps my uppermost thought just now is that I am disappointing you, that I am not so big as you thought I would be. For now, in this final letter, I can tell you how much I cared. Oh, my dear, I did care!
“But I will not marry you. And when this reaches you I shall have gone very quietly out of your life. I find that such philosophy as I have does not support me to-night, that all my little rules of life are inadequate. Individual liberty was one—but there is no liberty of the individual. Life—other lives—press too closely. You, living your life as seemed best and easiest, and carrying down with you into shipwreck the little Marie and—myself!