“It’s lovely out to-day,” she remarked.

“Is it?” said Hurstwood.

After breakfast, he immediately got his other clothes.

“Will you be back for lunch?” asked Carrie nervously.

“No,” he said.

He went out into the streets and tramped north, along Seventh Avenue, idly fixing upon the Harlem River as an objective point.  He had seen some ships up there, the time he had called upon the brewers.  He wondered how the territory thereabouts was growing.

Passing Fifty-ninth Street, he took the west side of Central Park, which he followed to Seventy-eighth Street.  Then he remembered the neighborhood and turned over to look at the mass of buildings erected.  It was very much improved.  The great open spaces were filling up.  Coming back, he kept to the Park until 110th Street, and then turned into Seventh Avenue again, reaching the pretty river by one o’clock.

There it ran winding before his gaze, shining brightly in the clear light, between the undulating banks on the right and the tall, tree-covered heights on the left.  The spring-like atmosphere woke him to a sense of its loveliness, and for a few moments he stood looking at it, folding his hands behind his back.  Then he turned and followed it toward the east side, idly seeking the ships he had seen.  It was four o’clock before the waning day, with its suggestion of a cooler evening, caused him to return.  He was hungry and would enjoy eating in the warm room.

When he reached the flat by half-past five, it was still dark.  He knew that Carrie was not there, not only because there was no light showing through the transom, but because the evening papers were stuck between the outside knob and the door.  He opened with his key and went in.  Everything was still dark.  Lighting the gas, he sat down, preparing to wait a little while.  Even if Carrie did come now, dinner would be late.  He read until six, then got up to fix something for himself.

As he did so, he noticed that the room seemed a little queer.  What was it?  He looked around, as if he missed something, and then saw an envelope near where he had been sitting.  It spoke for itself, almost without further action on his part.

Reaching over, he took it, a sort of chill settling upon him even while he reached.  The crackle of the envelope in his hands was loud.  Green paper money lay soft within the note.

“Dear George,” he read, crunching the money in one hand, “I’m going away.  I’m not coming back any more.  It’s no use trying to keep up the flat; I can’t do it.  I wouldn’t mind helping you, if I could, but I can’t support us both, and pay the rent.  I need what little I make to pay for my clothes.  I’m leaving twenty dollars.  It’s all I have just now.  You can do whatever you like with the furniture.  I won’t want it.—­Carrie.