He had taken her home and was leaving, when a carriage passed him.  He could hear the voices of the occupants—­the brisk accents of Mrs. Barsaloux, and the slow, honey-rich tones of Marna.  He had never dreamed that he could do such a thing, but he ran forward with an almost frantic desire to rest his eyes upon the girl’s face, and he was beside the curb when the carriage drew up at the door of the house where Mrs. Barsaloux and Marna lodged.  He flung open the door in spite of the protests of the driver, who was not sure of his right to offer such a service, and held out his hand to Mrs. Barsaloux.  That lady accepted his politeness graciously, and, weary and abstracted, moved at once toward the house-steps, searching meantime for her key.  Fitzgerald had fifteen seconds alone with Marna.  She stood half-poised upon the carriage-steps, her hand in his, their eyes almost on a level.  Then he said an impossible and insane thing.  It was wrung out of his misery, out of his knowledge of her loveliness.

“I’ve lost you!” he whispered.  “Do you know that to-night ended my happiness?”

Mama’s lips parted delicately; her eyes widened; her swift Celtic spirit encompassed his grief.

“Oh!” she breathed.  “Don’t speak so!  Don’t spoil my beautiful time!”

“Not I,” he retorted sharply, speaking aloud this time.  “Far be it from me!  Good-bye.”

Mrs. Barsaloux heard him vaguely above the jangling of coins and keys and the rushing of a distant train.

“You’re not going to leave town, are you, Dr. Fitzgerald?” she inquired casually.  “I thought your good-bye had a final accent to it.”

She was laughing in her easy way, quite unconscious of what was taking place.  She had made an art of laughing, and it carried her and others over many difficult places.  But for once it was powerless to lessen the emotional strain.  Mysteriously, Fitzgerald and Marna were experiencing a sweet torment in their parting.  It was not that she loved him or had thought of him in that way at all.  She had seen him often and had liked his hearty ways, his gay spirits, and his fine upstanding figure, but he had been as one who passed by with salutations.  Now, suddenly, she was conscious that he was a man to be desired.  She saw his wistful eyes, his avid lips, his great shoulders.  The woman in her awoke to a knowledge of her needs.  Upon such a shoulder might a woman weep, from such eyes might a woman gather dreams; to allay such torment as his might a woman give all she had to give.  It was incoherent, mad, but not unmeaning.  It had, indeed, the ultimate meaning.

He said nothing more; she spoke no word.  Each knew they would meet on the morrow.

The next night, Kate Barrington, making her way swiftly down the Midway in a misty gloom, saw the little figure of Marna Cartan fluttering before her.  It was too early for dinner, and Kate guessed that Marna was on her way to pay her a visit—­a not rare occurrence these last few weeks.  She called to her, and Marna waited, turning her face for a moment to the mist-bearing wind.