“For instance,” she said, “if a man who fancies himself in love with me deliberately dictates a certain course of action which I do not care to follow, and grows angry with me, and finally breaks with me altogether, I certainly do not in any way feel responsible for any of his subsequent movements.  Am I right?”

In parting with her, and in answer to her question, I made, as we so often make in reply to real questions, a foolish answer: 

“I will tell you on New Year’s night.”

* * * * *

I drove to the club.  I was aglow with my enjoyment of the evening, and wanted to talk it over with some congenial fellow.  I found John Hardisty, a man that I had known for many years, and who always seemed to enjoy my rambling accounts—­even of a ball.

Hardisty was a quiet man, keenly observant of people, but himself free almost entirely from observation.  In the financial world he held a clerical but valuable position; in the social world, being a gentleman and a club man, he was invited everywhere; and, being very punctilious about his calls and social obligations, he was always invited again.  People in recounting those who had been at balls, dinners, and the like, always named the guests, then added, “And Hardisty, I believe.”  No one was ever very sure.  He had no intimate friends and no enemies—­he was not noticed enough to inspire dislike.  But he was a man of positive opinion, which he generally kept to himself.  He had settled convictions, which he never used to unsettle others.  I had known him in his old home, Virginia; so perhaps he felt more friendly toward me and talked more freely with me.

He was a man of a fine sentiment and a sensitive nature.  He ought to have been a poet instead of a clerical expert.  He was intensely fond of flowers, but never wore them.  He used to say that it was heresy for a man to wear a flower, and sacrilege for a woman to let them die on her breast.

When I told him about those Russian violets he seemed interested, but, when I finished, astonished and grieved me by yawning in my face and calmly stating that he considered the story trivial, far-fetched, and, in short, stupid.

“There is,” he said, “only one thing for us to do—­have a drink and go to bed—­for the club closes in ten minutes.”  He ordered a small bottle of wine, something I had never seen him drink, and talked in a light, nonsensical strain, for him a most unusual thing.  In telling the story I had drawn out the little bunch of Russian violets and placed them on the table.  They were very much wilted, but the odor seemed stronger and sweeter than ever.  When we parted for the night I forgot the violets.  The next day, the twenty-ninth of December, I did not see John Hardisty, although he was at his office and in the club that night, and insisted on paying his account for December and his dues to April first.  December thirtieth he was at his office, where he remained until nearly midnight.  He went to his room, which was near the club, and was found by his servant, early the next morning, the last of the old year, dead.  He was lying on the bed, dressed and at full length.  His right hand clenched a pistol with one empty barrel; gently closed in his left hand they found a little bunch of faded violets—­that was all.