“That would force me to bridge twice in passing the upper glacier.  We shall see what the courts have to say.”  “Thanks!  I shall be grateful for the delay.”

Gordon rose with a bow.  The interview had been short and to the point.  O’Neil put an engine at his service for the return trip, and after a stiff adieu the visitor departed, inwardly raging.

It was his first visit to Omar, and now that he was here he determined to see it all.  But first another matter demanded his attention—­a matter much in his mind of late, concerning which he had reached a more or less satisfactory decision during his journey.

He went directly to the new hotel and inquired for Gloria Gerard.

Beneath the widow’s coldness when she came to meet him he detected an uncertainty, a frightened indecision which assured him of success, and he set himself to his task with the zest he always felt in bending another to his will.

“It has been the greatest regret of my life that we quarreled,” he told her when their strained greeting was over.  “I felt that I had to come and see with my own eyes that you are well.”

“I am quite well.”

“Two people who have been to each other as much as we have been cannot lightly separate; their lives cannot be divided without a painful readjustment.”  He paused, then reflecting that he could afford a little sentimental extravagance, added, “Flowers cannot easily be transplanted, and love, after all, is the frailest of blooms.”

“I—­think it is perennial.  Have you—­missed me?” Her dark eyes were strained and curious.

“My dear, you can never know how much, nor how deeply distressing this whole affair has been to me.”  He managed to put an affecting pathos into words sufficiently banal, for he was an excellent actor.  “I find that I am all sentiment.  Under the shell of the hard-headed business man beats the heart of a school-boy.  The memory of the hours we have spent together, the places we have seen, the joys and discouragements we have shared, haunts me constantly.  Memory can glean but never renew:  ’joy’s recollection is no longer joy while sorrow’s memory is sorrow still.’”

The spell of his personality worked strongly upon her.  “Recollection is the only paradise from which we cannot be turned out,” she said.  “You read that to me once, but I didn’t dream that my own happiness would some day consist of recollection.”

“Why should it, Gloria?  Hope is ready to welcome you.  Your home stands open; my arms are outstretched.”

“No!” she exclaimed, with a shake of her dark head.  “There is some one besides myself to consider.  Natalie is happy here; no one seems to know or to care what I have done.”

“But surely you are not satisfied with this.”

He ran his eye critically over the garish newness of the little hotel parlor.  It was flimsy, cheap, fresh with paint, very different from the surroundings he had given her at Hope.  “I wonder that he presumed to offer you this after what you have had.  A hotel-keeper!  A landlady!”