Theron drew a long breath in the hall, as the curtain fell behind him.
It was an immense relief to escape from the oppressive humidity and heat
of the flower-room, and from that ridiculous bore of a Michael as well.

The middle-aged, grave-faced servant, warned by the bell, stood waiting
to conduct him to the door.

"I am sorry to have missed Miss Madden," he said to her. "She must be
quite worn out. Perhaps later in the day--"

"She will not be seeing anybody today," returned the woman. "She is
going to New York this evening, and she is taking some rest against the
journey."

"Will she be away long?" he asked mechanically. The servant's answer, "I
have no idea," hardly penetrated his consciousness at all.

He moved down the steps, and along the gravel to the street, in a maze
of mental confusion. When he reached the sidewalk, under the familiar
elms, he paused, and made a definite effort to pull his thoughts
together, and take stock of what had happened, of what was going to
happen; but the thing baffled him. It was as if some drug had stupefied
his faculties.

He began to walk, and gradually saw that what he was thinking about was
the fact of Celia's departure for New York that evening. He stared
at this fact, at first in its nakedness, then clothed with reassuring
suggestions that this was no doubt a trip she very often made. There was
a blind sense of comfort in this idea, and he rested himself upon it.