certain localities, which the sophisticated are able to recognize as the seats of the socially ineligible, but which to Ditmar were outward and visible emblems of success.  He liked to think of George as the inheritor of such a place, as the son of a millionaire, as a “college graduate,” as an influential man of affairs; he liked to imagine Amy as the wife of such another.  In short, Ditmar’s wife had left him, as an unconscious legacy, her aspirations for their children’s social prestige....

The polished oak grandfather’s clock in the hall had struck one before he went to bed, mentally wearied by an unwonted problem involving, in addition to self-interest, an element of ethics, of affection not wholly compounded of desire.

He slept soundly, however.  He was one of those fortunate beings who come into the world with digestive organs and thyroid glands in that condition which—­so physiologists tell us—­makes for a sanguine temperament.  And his course of action, though not decided upon, no longer appeared as a problem; it differed from a business matter in that it could wait.  As sufficient proof of his liver having rescued him from doubts and qualms he was able to whistle, as he dressed, and without a tremor of agitation, the forgotten tune suggested to his consciousness during the unpleasant reverie of the night before,—­“Only a Bird in a Gilded Cage!” It was Saturday.  He ate a hearty breakfast, joked with George and Amy, and refreshed, glowing with an expectation mingled with just the right amount of delightful uncertainty that made the great affairs of life a gamble, yet with the confidence of the conqueror, he walked in sunlight to the mill.  In view of this firm and hopeful tone of his being he found it all the more surprising, as he reached the canal, to be seized by a trepidation strong enough to bring perspiration to his forehead.  What if she had gone!  He had never thought of that, and he had to admit it would be just like her.  You never could tell what she would do.

Nodding at Simmons, the watchman, he hurried up the iron-shod stairs, gained the outer once, and instantly perceived that her chair beside the window was empty!  Caldwell and Mr. Price stood with their heads together bending over a sheet on which Mr. Price was making calculations.

“Hasn’t Miss Bumpus come yet?” Ditmar demanded.  He tried to speak naturally, casually, but his own voice sounded strange, seemed to strike the exact note of sickening apprehension that suddenly possessed him.  Both men turned and looked at him in some surprise.

“Good-morning, Mr. Ditmar,” Caldwell said.  “Why, yes, she’s in your room.”

“Oh!” said Ditmar.

“The Boston office has just been calling you—­they want to know if you can’t take the nine twenty-two,” Caldwell went on.  “It’s about that lawsuit.  It comes into court Monday morning, and Mr. Sprole is there, and they say they have to see you.  Miss Bumpus has the memorandum.”