I was much pleased with the turn of events.  If I could get away from New York I might forget Phyllis—­no, not forget her; I loved her too well ever to forget her; but the prolonged absence would cure me of my malady.

Before going to bed that night I lit a cigar, but not with the check.  On sober second thought I calculated that the sum would pay up all my debts and leave me a comfortable margin.  A man can well pocket his pride when he pockets a thousand dollars with it.  And why not?  I was about to start life anew and might as well begin on a philosophical basis.  Who knew but my uncle had foreseen the result of his bequest; my rage, my pride, and finally lighting a cigar with his check?  It really might make his spirit writhe to better effect if I became benefited.  Sober second thought is more or less a profitable investment.

On the morrow everything was arranged for my departure.  I was to leave Saturday morning.

It was a beautiful day, crisp and clear, with a bare ground which rang to the heel.  In the afternoon I wandered over to the Park and sat down on a bench, and watched the skaters as they glided to and fro.  I caught myself wishing that I was a boy again, with an hour’s romp on the sheeny crust in view.  Gradually the mantle of peace fell upon me, and there was a sense of rest.  I was going to forgive the world the wrong it had done me; perhaps it would feel ashamed of itself and reward me for my patience.  So Hillars was “going to pieces.”  It is strange how we men love another who has shared and spent with us our late patrimonies.  Hillars and I had been friends since our youth, and we had lived together till a few years back.  Then he went to Washington, from there to Paris, thence to London.  He was a better newspaper man than I. I liked to dream too well, while he was always for a little action.  Liquor was getting the best of him.  I wondered why.  It might be a woman.  There is always one around somewhere when a man’s breath smells of whisky.  A good deal of this woman’s temperance business is caused by remorse.  I was drawing aimless pictures in the frozen gravel, when I became aware that two skaters had stopped in front of me.  I glanced up and saw Phyllis and Ethel, their eyes like stars and their cheeks like roses.

“I was wondering if it was you,” said Ethel.  “Phyllis, where is my cavalier?”

“I believe he has forsaken us,” said the voice of the woman I loved.

“Will you not accept part of the bench?” I asked, moving along.

The girls dropped easily beside me.

“I was just wishing I was a boy again and was in for a game of hockey,” said I.  “I am going to London on Saturday.  Our foreign correspondent has had to give up work on account of ill health.”

“You haven’t——­” Phyllis stopped suddenly.

“Oh, no,” said I intuitively.  “I am growing rusty, and they think I need a vacation.”  I was glad Ethel was there with her voluble chatter.