“That’s quite enough.  Good-by.”

And she rang off.  He was used to her treating compliment and flattery from him in that fashion.  He could not—­or was it would not?—­understand why.  He had learned that she was not at all the indifferent and unaware person in the matter of her physical charms he had at first fancied her.  On the contrary, she had more than her share of physical vanity—­not more than was her right, in view of her charms, but more than she could carry off well.  With many a secret smile he had observed that she thought herself perfect physically.  This did not repel him; it never does repel a man—­when and so long as he is under the enchantment of the charms the woman more or less exaggerates.  But, while he had often seen women with inordinate physical vanity, so often that he had come to regarding it as an essential part of feminine character, never before had he seen one so content with her own good opinion of herself that she was indifferent to appreciation from others.

He did not go back to the office after lunch.  Several important matters were coming up; if he got within reach they might conspire to make it impossible for him to be with her on time.  If his partners, his clients knew!  He the important man of affairs kneeling at the feet of a nobody!—­and why?  Chiefly because he was unable to convince her that he amounted to anything.  His folly nauseated him.  He sat in a corner in the dining room of the Lawyers’ Club and drank one whisky and soda after another and brooded over his follies and his unhappiness, muttering monotonously from time to time:  “No wonder she makes a fool of me.  I invite it, I beg for it, damned idiot that I am!” By three o’clock he had drunk enough liquor to have dispatched the average man for several days.  It had produced no effect upon him beyond possibly a slight aggravation of his moodiness.

It took only twenty minutes to get from New York to her house.  He set out at a few minutes after three; arrived at twenty minutes to four.  As experience of her ways had taught him that she was much less friendly when he disobeyed her requests, he did not dare go to the house, but, after looking at it from a corner two blocks away, made a detour that would use up some of the time he had to waste.  And as he wandered he indulged in his usual alternations between self-derision and passion.  He appeared at the house at five minutes to four.  Patrick, who with Molly his wife looked after the domestic affairs, was at the front gate gazing down the street in the direction from which he always came.  At sight of him Pat came running.  Norman quickened his pace, and every part of his nervous system was in turmoil.

“Mr. Hallowell—­he’s—­dead,” gasped Pat.

“Dead?” echoed Norman.

“Three quarters of an hour ago, sir.  He came from the lobatry, walked in the sitting room where Miss Dorothy was oiling the furniture and I was oiling the floor.  And he sets down—­and he looks at her—­as cool and calm as could be—­and he says, ‘Dorothy, my child, I’m dying.’  And she stands up straight and looks at him curious like—­just curious like.  And he says, ‘Dorothy, good-by.’  And he shivers, and I jumps up just in time to catch him from rolling to the floor.  He was dead then—­so the doctor says.”