The best available train passed Waupegan Station at midnight, and he sat alone on his veranda that evening with anger against Marian still hot in his heart.  He had yet to apprise Mrs. Bassett of his intended journey, delaying the moment as long as possible to minimize her inevitable querulous moanings.  Blackford was in his room studying, and Bassett had grimly paced the veranda for half an hour when the nurse came down with a request that he desist from his promenade, as it annoyed Mrs. Bassett in her chamber above.

He thereupon subsided and retired to the darkest corner of the veranda.  A four-hour vigil lay before him, and he derived no calm from the still stars that faintly shadowed the quiet waters below.  He was assailed by torments reserved for those who, having long made others writhe without caring that they suffered, hear the swish of the lash over their own heads.  He had only lately been conscious of his growing irritability.  He hated men who yield to irritation; it was a sign of weakness, a failure of self-mastery.  He had been carried on by a strong tide, imagining that he controlled it and guided it.  He had used what he pleased of the apparatus of life, and when any part of the mechanism became unnecessary, he had promptly discarded it.  It angered him to find that he had thrown away so much, that the mechanism was no longer as responsive as it had been.  The very peace of the night grated upon him.

A light step sounded at the end of the veranda.  A figure in white was moving toward the door, and recognizing Sylvia, he rose hastily and advanced to meet her.

“Is that you, Mr. Bassett?  I ran over with a new grammar for Blackford that he will like better than the one he’s using.  I’ve marked his lesson so he can look it over before I come in the morning.  How is Mrs. Bassett?”

“She’s very tired and nervous to-night.  Won’t you sit down?”

“Thank you, no.  If it isn’t too late I’ll run up and see Mrs. Bassett for a moment.”

“I think you’d better not.  The nurse is trying to get her to sleep.”

“Oh, then of course I shan’t stop,” and Sylvia turned to go.  “How soon will Marian be home?”

“To-morrow evening; I’m going up to get her to-night,” he answered harshly.

“You are going to the Willings to come home with her?” asked Sylvia, surprised by his gruffness.

He spoke in a lower tone.

“You didn’t see to-day’s papers?  She’s been to Chicago with those Willings and their machine was smashed and the chauffeur hurt.  I’m going to bring her back.  She had no business to be visiting the Willings in the first place, and their taking her to Chicago without our consent was downright impudence.  I don’t want Mrs. Bassett to know of the accident.  I’m going up on the night train.”

It satisfied his turbulent spirit to tell her this; he had blurted it out without attempting to conceal the anger that the thought of Marian roused in him.