“Why, I thought you were going home next week?”

He grinned.  “I am, because I’ve found out there’s a party wants me to stay away worse than the courts want me back.  Making the trip just for my private satisfaction—­there won’t be any money in it, I’m afraid.”

Leaden disappointment descended on Undine.  She had felt almost sure of Moffatt’s helping her, and for an instant she wondered if some long-smouldering jealousy had flamed up under its cold cinders.  But another look at his face denied her this solace; and his evident indifference was the last blow to her pride.  The twinge it gave her prompted her to ask:  “Don’t you ever mean to get married?”

Moffatt gave her a quick look.  “Why, I shouldn’t wonder—­one of these days.  Millionaires always collect something; but I’ve got to collect my millions first.”

He spoke coolly and half-humorously, and before he had ended she had lost all interest in his reply.  He seemed aware of the fact, for he stood up and held out his hand.  “Well, so long, Mrs. Marvell.  It’s been uncommonly pleasant to see you; and you’d better think over what I’ve said.”

She laid her hand sadly in his.  “You’ve never had a child,” she replied.

XXXI

Nearly two years had passed since Ralph Marvell, waking from his long sleep in the hot summer light of Washington Square, had found that the face of life was changed for him.

In the interval he had gradually adapted himself to the new order of things; but the months of adaptation had been a time of such darkness and confusion that, from the vantage-ground of his recovered lucidity, he could not yet distinguish the stages by which he had worked his way out; and even now his footing was not secure.

His first effort had been to readjust his values—­to take an inventory of them, and reclassify them, so that one at least might be made to appear as important as those he had lost; otherwise there could be no reason why he should go on living.  He applied himself doggedly to this attempt; but whenever he thought he had found a reason that his mind could rest in, it gave way under him, and the old struggle for a foothold began again.  His two objects in life were his boy and his book.  The boy was incomparably the stronger argument, yet the less serviceable in filling the void.  Ralph felt his son all the while, and all through his other feelings; but he could not think about him actively and continuously, could not forever exercise his eager empty dissatisfied mind on the relatively simple problem of clothing, educating and amusing a little boy of six.  Yet Paul’s existence was the all-sufficient reason for his own; and he turned again, with a kind of cold fervour, to his abandoned literary dream.  Material needs obliged him to go on with his regular business; but, the day’s work over, he was possessed of a leisure as bare and as blank as an unfurnished house, yet that was at least his own to furnish as he pleased.