No; decidedly he would not.  She must get in and let him take her to the station.  There he could work off his wrath only by buying her ticket and seeing to her luggage; while his charge to the negro porter to look to her comfort was of such a nature that during the whole of the journey she was pelted with magazine literature and tormented with glasses of ice-water.

That night he found himself impelled by his sense of honor as a gentleman to write a letter of apology for the indignity she had been exposed to while in his house.  When it had gone he considered it insufficient, and only the reflection that he ought to have business in town next day kept him from following it up with a second note.

Arrived in New York, where the city was burning as if under a sun-glass, he found his chief subject for consideration to be the choice of a club at which to lunch.  There, in the solitude of the deserted smoking-room, where the heat was tempered, the glare shut out, and the very footfall subdued, he thought of the little hotel in University Place.  Because human society had mysterious unwritten laws, the woman he loved was forced to steal away from the freshness and peace of green fields and sweeping river, to take refuge amid the noisome ugliness from which, in spite of her courage, her exquisite nature must shrink.  He, whose needs were simple, as his tastes were comparatively coarse, could command the sybaritic luxury of a Roman patrician, while she, who could not lift her hand without betraying the habits of inborn refinement, was exposed not only to vulgar contact, but to a squalor of discomfort as odious as vice.  The thought was a humiliation.  Even if he had not loved her, it would have seemed almost the duty of a man of honor to step in between her and the cruel pathos of her lot.

It was a curious reflection that it was the very fact that he did love her which held him back.  Could he have turned toward Paradise and said to the sweet soul waiting for him there, “This woman has need of me, but you alone reign in my heart,” he would have felt more free to act.  But the time when that would have been possible had gone by.  Anything he might do now would be less for her need than his own; and his own he could endure if loyalty to his past demanded it.  None the less was it necessary to find a way in which to come to Diane’s immediate relief; and by the time he had finished his cigar he thought he had discovered it.

“Having been obliged to run up to town,” he explained, when she had received him in the little hotel parlor, “I’ve dropped in to tell you that I’m going away for a few weeks into Canada.”

“Isn’t it rather hot weather for travelling?” she asked, with that clear, smiling gaze which showed him at once that she had seen through his pretext for coming.

“It won’t be hot where I’m going—­up into the valley of the Metapedia.”

“It’s rather a sudden decision, isn’t it?”