“I know it seems queer that I haven’t been to see you ... but you’ll understand, I couldn’t.  There was so much to do....”

He stopped, and then again came the cold, uneven voice: 

“You could have found a moment.”

They went on in silence, and entered the Park, following the walk where it swept its curve alongside the tree-arched roadway, past low green hills to the right and the sinking lawns to the left, crossed the roadway, and climbed the steep path that gave on to the Ramble—­that twisty little wilderness in the heart of the city, that remote, wild, magic tangle.

A little pond lay in the very center of it, all deep with the blue sky, and golden October gloried all about it—­swaying in wild-tinted treetops, blowing in dry leaves, sparkling on every spot of wet, and all suffused and splashed and strangely fresh with the low, red, radiant sunlight.  There was splendor in the place, and the air dripped with glorious life, and through it all went the lovers, silent, estranged, pitiable.

“We can sit here,” said Joe.

It was a bench under a tree, facing the pond.  They sat down, each gazing on the ground, and the leaves dropped on them, and squirrels ran up to them, tufted their tails and begged for peanuts with lustrous beady eyes, and now and then some early walker or some girl or man on the way to work swung lustily past and disappeared in foliage and far low vistas of tree trunks.

The suspense became intolerable again.  Joe turned a little to her.

“Myra!”

She was trembling; a moment more she would be in his arms, sobbing, forgiving him.  But she hurried on in an unnatural way.

“You wanted to speak to me—­I’m waiting. Why don’t you speak?”

It was a blow in the face; his own voice hardened then.

“You’re making it very hard for me.”

She said nothing, and he had to go on.

“After the fire—­” his voice snapped, and it was a space before he went on, “I felt I was guilty....  I went to a mass-meeting and one of the speakers accused the ... class I belong to ... of failing in their duty....  She said ...”

Myra spoke sharply: 

“Who said?”

“Miss Heffer.”

“Oh!”

Joe felt suddenly silenced.  Something unpleasant was creeping in between them.  He did not know enough of women, either, to divine how Myra was suffering, to know that she had reached a nervous pitch where she was hardly responsible for what she thought and said.  He went on blunderingly: 

“I felt that I was accused...  I felt that I had to make reparation to the toilers, ... had to spend my life making conditions better....  You see this country has reached a crisis ...”

It was all gibberish to her.

“Exactly what do you mean?” she asked, sharply.

“I mean”—­he fumbled for words—­“I must go and live among the poor and arouse them and teach them of the great change that is taking place....”