Of all the consequences of what he had done, the one which had come to afflict him the most poignantly was that his enjoyment of life was spoiled.  At first he had thought that he never could take pleasure in anything again so long as he should live, that his good times were gone.  But as his pliable character rearranged itself to suit the new environment, he began to see that there would come a time when he would grow accustomed to Ida’s death and when his grief would lose its sharpness.  He had even commenced to look forward to this time and to long for it as a sort of respite and relief.  He believed at first that it would not be for a great many years; but even so soon after the suicide as this, he saw with a little thrill of comfort that it would be but a matter of months.  At the same time Vandover was surprised and even troubled at the ease with which he was recovering from the first shock.  He wondered at himself, because he knew he had been sincere in his talk with his father.  Vandover was not given to self-analysis, but now for a minute he was wondering if this reaction were due to his youth, his good health and his good spirits, or whether there was something wrong with him.  However, he dismissed these thoughts with a shrug of his shoulders as though freeing himself from some disagreeable burden.  Ah, he was no worse than the average; one could get accustomed to almost anything; it was only in the books that people had their lives ruined; and to brood over such things was unnatural and morbid.  Ah! what a dreadful thing to become morbid!  He could not bring Ida back, or mitigate what he had done, or be any more sorry for it by making himself miserable.  Well, then!  Only he would let that sort of thing alone after this, the lesson had been too terrible; he would try and enjoy himself again, only it should be in other ways.

Later in the evening, about nine o’clock, when nearly all the passengers were in bed, and Vandover was leaning over the side of the boat finishing his pipe before turning in himself, Grace Irving came out of her stateroom and sat down at a little distance from him, looking out over the water, humming a little song.  She and Vandover were the only people to be seen on the deserted promenade.

Vandover saw her without moving, only closing his teeth tighter on his pipe.  It was evident that Grace expected him to speak to her and had given him a chance for an admirable little tete-a-tete.  For a moment Vandover’s heart knocked at his throat; he drew his breath once or twice sharply through his nose.  In an instant all the old evil instincts were back again, urging and clamouring never so strong, never so insistent.  But Vandover set his face against them, honestly, recalling his resolution, telling himself that he was done with that life.  As he had said, the lesson had been too terrible.

He turned about resolutely, and walked slowly away from her.  The girl looked after him a moment, surprised, and then called out: