As he looked at her and heard her words running on smoothly and meaninglessly, he knew that it was quite useless to speak, and he grew suddenly colder, and sick, and furious at once with a confused anger and bitterness.  And then, for he was quite young, so young that he thought it was the manly thing to do to carry his grief off lightly instead of rather being proud of his love, however she might hold it,—­he drew himself up and began pulling carefully at his glove.

“Yes,” he said, slowly, “I fancy the change will be very pleasant.”  He was not thinking of his words or of how thoughtless they must sound.  He was only anxious to get away without showing how deeply he was hurt.  If he had not done this; if he had let her see how miserable he was, and that plays and books and such things were nothing to him now, and that she was just all there was in the whole world to him, it might have ended differently.  But he was untried, and young.  So he buttoned the left glove with careful scrutiny and said, “They always start those boats at such absurd hours; the tides never seem to suit one; you have to go on board without breakfast, or else stay on board the night before, and that’s so unpleasant.  Well, I hope you will enjoy the dance, and tell them I was very much hurt that I wasn’t asked.”

He held out his hand quite steadily.  “I will write you if you will let me,” he went on, “and send you word where I am as soon as I know.”  She took his hand and said, “Good-by, and I hope it will be a grand success:  I know it will.  And come back soon; and, yes, do write to me.  I hope you will have a very pleasant voyage.”

He had reached the door and stopped uncertainly at the curtains.  “Thank you,” he said; and “Oh,” he added, politely, “will you say good-by to your mother for me, please?”

She nodded her head and smiled and said, “Yes; I will not forget.  Good-by.”

She did not move until she heard the door close upon him, and then she turned towards the window as though she could still follow him through the closed blinds, and then she walked over to the divan and picked up her fan and gloves and remained looking down at them in her hand.  The room seemed very empty.  She glanced at the place where he had stood and at the darkened windows again, and sank down very slowly against the cushions of the divan, and pressed her hands against her cheeks.

She did not hear the rustle of her mother’s dress as she came down the stairs and parted the curtains.

“Are you ready, Eleanore?” she said, briskly.  “Tell me, how does this lace look?  I think there is entirely too much of it.”

* * * * *