Stafford sank down on the seat and sat there for a moment without speaking.  Claudia was awed at the look on his face.

“Don’t look like that!” she cried.  “You look like a man lost.”

“Yes, lost!” he echoed.  “All lost—­all lost—­and for nothing!”

Silence followed for a long time.  Then he roused himself, and looked at her.  Claudia’s eyes were full of tears.

“It’s not your fault, my sweet lady,” he said gently.  “You are pure and bright and beautiful, as you ever were, and I have raved and frightened you.  Well, I will go.”

“Go where?”

“Where?  I don’t know yet.”

“I am so very, very sorry.  But you must try—­you must forget about it.”

He smiled.

“Yes, I must forget about it.”

“You will be yourself again—­your old self—­not weak like this, but giving others strength.”

“Yes,” he said again, humoring her.

“Surely you can do it—­you who had such strength.  And don’t think hardly of me.”

“I think of you as I used to think of God,” he said; and bent and kissed her hand.

“Oh, hush!” she cried.  “Pray don’t!”

He kissed her hand once again, and then straightened himself, and said: 

“Now I am going.  You must forget—­or remember Millstead, not Territon.  And I—­”

“Yes, and you?”

“I will go, too, where I may find forgetfulness.  Good-by.”

“Good-by,” said Claudia, and gave him her hand again, her heart full of pity and almost of love.  He turned on his heel, and she stood and watched him go.  For a moment a sudden thought flashed through her head.

“Shall I call him back?  Shall I ever find such love as his?”

She started a step forward, but stopped again.

“No, I do not love him,” she said.  “And I do love my careless Eugene.  But God comfort him!  O God, comfort him!”

And so standing and praying for him, she let him go.

And he went, with no falter in his step and never a look backward.  This thing also had he set behind him.

Claudia still stood fixed on the spot where he had left her.  Then she sat down on the seat, and gave herself up to memories of their walks and talks at Millstead.

“Why need he spoil it all?” she cried.  “Why need he give me a sad memory, when I had such a pleasant one?  Oh, how foolish they are!  What a pity it’s Eugene, and not him!  Eugene would never have looked like that.  He’d have made a bitter little speech, and then a pretty little speech, and smoothed his feathers and flown away.  But still it is Eugene!  Oh, dear, I shall never be quite happy again!”

We may reasonably, nay confidently, hope that this was looking at the black side of things.  It is pleasant to act a little to ourselves now and then.  The little pieces are thrilling, and they don’t last much longer than their counterparts upon the stage.  With most of us the curtain falls very punctually, leaving time for a merry supper, where we forget the headache and the thousand natural and unnatural ills that passed in our sight before the green baize let fall its merciful veil.