Ah, if she would only forgive him and come back!  His first impulse was to go after her, humiliate himself, go on his knees if necessary, and beseech her to return.  A dozen times he sat down and wrote her a letter, but they were never sent.  His pride forbade it, and caused him to go about wearing a mask of indifference which he was far from feeling.  No, he could not go after her.  All through his life, he had prided himself on his strength of will.  It was the keystone of his character, both in his relations with his workmen and also in his domestic life.  If he were to weaken, no matter what the circumstances, after once taking a determined stand, he would forfeit not only the world’s respect, but his own as well.  He was as proud and self-willed as she.  He had told her that he would never go to her unless she sent for him.  If, therefore, she was as proud and determined as he was, they had said good-bye for ever.  They would never see each other again.  If she did not write, it was because she had tired of him and did not want to come back.  Perhaps she had found someone for whom she cared more, and no doubt one of these days some lawyer would be serving him with papers in a separation or divorce suit.  Thus, his brain conjuring up all kinds of possibilities, he began to nourish feelings of anger and resentment.  Suppose he had been a little rough with her, it was far worse for her to abandon him and expose him to all kinds of slanderous rumors.  Thus, steeling his heart, he tried to forget her.

For a time he went back to his old style of life, leading again that easy-going, bohemian existence of his bachelor days.  He plunged into gaieties and dissipations of every kind.  He gambled freely, drank heavily and gave midnight champagne suppers enlivened by “appetizing” vaudeville, to prominent ladies of the demi-monde.  Yet even these excesses could not drown the prickings of conscience.  Sometimes, amid one of these nocturnal debauches, and while the drunken revelry was at its height, he would suddenly see Virginia’s pale, thoughtful face.  Her eyes, dimmed with tears, and full of reproach, would seem to be gazing at him questioningly, wonderingly, that he should have so degraded himself.  With a cry of disgust, he would spring up from his chair and go back to his desolate home.

Gradually the strain told upon him.  He grew nervous and depressed.  His physician warned him against working too hard.

“It’s the grave malady of our time,” said the doctor, shaking his head.  “All our successful men fall victims to it.  It’s this cursed race to get rich quick.”

Stafford shook his head.  With a grim smile he said: 

“You are mistaken, doctor.  My affairs were never in better shape.  I’m ashamed to tell you what ails me.  It’s a schoolboy’s complaint.  I’m in love—­for the first time in my life.”

CHAPTER XIX

“Mrs. Travers!  Mr. Brown!  Mr. Travers!  Mr. Brown!”