And the two women, locked in each other’s arms, found that consolation in sympathy which steals away half the grief of the world.  Ah! who knows a woman’s heart?

For Philip there was in these days no such consolation.  It was a man’s way not to seek any, to roll himself up in his trouble like a hibernating bear.  And yet there were times when he had an intolerable longing for a confidant, for some one to whom he could relieve himself of part of his burden by talking.  To Celia he could say nothing.  Instinct told him that he should not go to her.  Of the sympathy of Alice he was sure, but why inflict his selfish grief on her tender heart?  But he was writing to her often, he was talking to her freely about his perplexities, about leaving the office and trusting himself to the pursuit of literature in some way.  And, in answer to direct questions, he told her that he had seen Evelyn only a few times, and, the fact was, that Mrs. Mavick had cut him dead.  He could not give to his correspondent a very humorous turn to this situation, for Alice knew—­had she not seen them often together, and did she not know the depths of Philip’s passion?  And she read between the lines the real state of the case.  Alice was indignant, but she did not think it wise to make too much of the incident.  Of Evelyn she wrote affectionately—­she knew she was a noble and high-minded girl.  As to her mother, she dismissed her with a country estimate.  “You know, Phil, that I never thought she was a lady.”

But the lover was not to be wholly without comfort.  He met by chance one day on the Avenue Miss McDonald, and her greeting was so cordial that he knew that he had at least one friend in the house of Mavick.

It was a warm spring day, a stray day sent in advance, as it were, to warn the nomads of the city that it was time to move on.  The tramps in Washington Square felt the genial impulse, and, seeking the shaded benches, began to dream of the open country, the hospitable farmhouses, the nooning by wayside springs, and the charm of wandering at will among a tolerant and not too watchful people.  Having the same abundant leisure, the dwellers up-town—­also nomads—­were casting in their minds how best to employ it, and the fortunate ones were already gathering together their flocks and herds and preparing to move on to their camps at Newport or among the feeding-hills of the New-England coast.

The foliage of Central Park, already heavy, still preserved the freshness of its new birth, and invited the stroller on the Avenue to its protecting shade.  At Miss McDonald’s suggestion they turned in and found a secluded seat.

“I often come here,” she said to Philip; “it is almost as peaceful as the wilderness itself.”

To Philip also it seemed peaceful, but the soothing influence he found in it was that he was sitting with the woman who saw Evelyn hourly, who had been with her only an hour ago.

“Yes,” she said, in reply to a question, “everybody is well.  We are going to leave town earlier than usual this summer, as soon as Mr. Mavick returns.  Mrs. Mavick is going to open her Newport house; she says she has had enough of the country.  It is still very amusing to me to see how you Americans move about with the seasons, just like the barbarians of Turkestan, half the year in summer camps and half the year in winter camps.”