Wallie Sayre was waiting for her outside, and she went up with him to lunch, and afterwards they played golf.  They had rather an amusing game, and once she had to sit down on a bunker and laugh until she was weak, while he fought his way out of a pit.  Crushed, indeed!

So the weaving went on, almost completed now.  With Wallie Sayre biding his time, but fairly sure of the result.  With Jean Melis happening on a two-days’ old paper, and reading over and over a notice addressed to him.  With Leslie Ward, neither better nor worse than his kind, seeking adventure in a bypath, which was East 56th Street.  And with Dick wandering the streets of New York after twilight, and standing once with his coat collar turned up against the rain outside of the Metropolitan Club, where the great painting of his father hung over a mantelpiece.

Now that he was near Beverly, Dick hesitated to see her.  He felt no resentment at her long silence, nor at his exile which had resulted from it.  He made excuses for her, recognized his own contribution to the catastrophe, knew, too, that nothing was to be gained by seeing her again.  But he determined finally to see her once more, and then to go away, leaving her to peace and to success.

She would know now that she had nothing to fear from him.  All he wanted was to satisfy the hunger that was in him by seeing her, and then to go away.

Curiously, that hunger to see her had been in abeyance while Bassett was with him.  It was only when he was alone again that it came up; and although he knew that, he was unconscious of another fact, that every word, every picture of her on the great boardings which walled in every empty lot, everything, indeed, which brought her into the reality of the present, loosened by so much her hold on him out of the past.

When he finally went to the 56th Street house it was on impulse.  He had meant to pass it, but he found himself stopping, and half angrily made his determination.  He would follow the cursed thing through now and get it over.  Perhaps he had discounted it too much in advance, waited too long, hoped too much.  Perhaps it was simply that that last phase was already passing.  But he felt no thrill, no expectancy, as he rang the bell and was admitted to the familiar hall.

It was peopled with ghosts, for him.  Upstairs, in the drawing-room that extended across the front of the house, she had told him of her engagement to Howard Lucas.  Later on, coming back from Europe, he had gone back there to find Lucas installed in the house, his cigars on the table, his photographs on the piano, his books scattered about.  And Lucas himself, smiling, handsome and triumphant on the hearth rug, dressed for dinner except for a brocaded dressing-gown, putting his hand familiarly on Beverly’s shoulder, and calling her “old girl.”

He wandered into the small room to the right of the hall, where in other days he had waited to be taken upstairs, and stood looking out of the window.  He heard some one, a caller, come down, get into his overcoat in the hall and go out, but he was not interested.  He did not know that Leslie Ward had stood outside the door for a minute, had seen and recognized him, and had then slammed out.