"It was only a crazy spell," he said to himself. "I don't know what got into me. I'll be careful, now."
When he reached the lamp-post another figure was there, Muriel Stacey, painted and over-dressed, and in her hand was a white letter, that he saw half-way up the block. He stopped short, frowning.
"Where's Fanny?"
"Here's a note she sent you," said the girl; "she's gone."
"Gone?"
"This morning."
He looked at the envelope; his name was written there in a childish, struggling hand.
"All right; thank you," he said suffocating. He left hurriedly, physically uncomfortable in the presence of Muriel Stacey, her friend. At the first lamp-post he stopped, broke the envelope, and read the awkward, painfully written script.
"I'm going away, it's best for you and me I know it. Guess I would care too much and I'm not good enough for you. Don't you be angry with me. Good luck. God bless you.
"F."