remorse, with no outlet of words, smoldered on his consciousness, as some hidden and infected wound might smolder in his flesh.  Yet he knew there would be no further unfaithfulness.  He would never, he told himself, see Lily again! That was easy!  He was done with all “Lilys.”  If he could only shed the self-knowledge which he was unable to share with Eleanor, as easily as he could shed Lily, how thankful he would be!  If he could but forget Lily by keeping away from her!  But of course he could not forget.  And with memory, and its redeeming pain of shame, was also the stabbing mortification of knowing that he had made a fool of himself, again!  First Eleanor; then—­Lily.  Sometimes, with this realization of his idiocy, he would feel an almost physical nausea.  It was so horrible to him, that when, a month later, the anniversary which marked his first folly came around again, he made an excuse of having to be away on business.  It seemed to Maurice that to go out to their field, with this loathsome secrecy (which was, of course, an inarticulate lie) buried in his soul, would be like carrying actual corruption in his hands!  So he went out of town on some trumped-up engagement, and Eleanor, left to herself, took little pining Bingo for a walk.  In a lonely; place in the park, holding the dog on her knee, she looked into his passionately loving liquid eyes and wiped her own; eyes on his silky ears....

Those were aging months for Maurice; and though, of course, the poignancy of shame lessened after a while, it left its imprint on his face, as well as on his mind.  They speculated about it at the office:  “‘G.  Washington’s’ got a grouch on,” one clerk said; “probably told the truth and lost a transfer!  Let’s give him another hatchet.”

And the friendly people at the boarding house noticed the change in him.  He had almost nothing to say, now, at dinner—­no more jokes with the school-teacher, no more eager talks with the gray-haired woman....

“Has she forbidden conversation, do you suppose?” Miss Moore asked, giggling; but the widow said, soberly, that she was afraid Mr. Curtis was troubled about something.  Mrs. Newbolt saw that there was something wrong with him, and talked of it to Eleanor, without a pause, for an hour.  And of course Eleanor felt a difference in him; all day long, in the loneliness of their third-floor front, under the gaze of Daniel Webster, she brooded over it.  Even while she was reading magazines and plodding through newspaper editorials on public questions she had never heard of, so that she could find things to talk about to him, she was thinking of the change, and asking herself what she had done—­or left undone—­to cause it?  She also asked him: 

“Maurice!  Something bothers you!  I’m not enough for you.  What is the matter?”

He said, shortly, “Nothing.”