“The House of Life.”  He took it up, and found himself plunged in an atmosphere unlike any he had ever breathed in books; so warm, so rich, and yet so ineffably tender, that it gave a new and haunting beauty to the most elementary of human passions.  All through the night he pursued through those enchanted pages the vision of a woman who had the face of Ellen Olenska; but when he woke the next morning, and looked out at the brownstone houses across the street, and thought of his desk in Mr. Letterblair’s office, and the family pew in Grace Church, his hour in the park of Skuytercliff became as far outside the pale of probability as the visions of the night.

“Mercy, how pale you look, Newland!” Janey commented over the coffee-cups at breakfast; and his mother added:  “Newland, dear, I’ve noticed lately that you’ve been coughing; I do hope you’re not letting yourself be overworked?” For it was the conviction of both ladies that, under the iron despotism of his senior partners, the young man’s life was spent in the most exhausting professional labours—­and he had never thought it necessary to undeceive them.

The next two or three days dragged by heavily.  The taste of the usual was like cinders in his mouth, and there were moments when he felt as if he were being buried alive under his future.  He heard nothing of the Countess Olenska, or of the perfect little house, and though he met Beaufort at the club they merely nodded at each other across the whist-tables.  It was not till the fourth evening that he found a note awaiting him on his return home.  “Come late tomorrow:  I must explain to you.  Ellen.”  These were the only words it contained.

The young man, who was dining out, thrust the note into his pocket, smiling a little at the Frenchness of the “to you.”  After dinner he went to a play; and it was not until his return home, after midnight, that he drew Madame Olenska’s missive out again and re-read it slowly a number of times.  There were several ways of answering it, and he gave considerable thought to each one during the watches of an agitated night.  That on which, when morning came, he finally decided was to pitch some clothes into a portmanteau and jump on board a boat that was leaving that very afternoon for St. Augustine.

XVI.

When Archer walked down the sandy main street of St. Augustine to the house which had been pointed out to him as Mr. Welland’s, and saw May Welland standing under a magnolia with the sun in her hair, he wondered why he had waited so long to come.

Here was the truth, here was reality, here was the life that belonged to him; and he, who fancied himself so scornful of arbitrary restraints, had been afraid to break away from his desk because of what people might think of his stealing a holiday!

Her first exclamation was:  “Newland—­has anything happened?” and it occurred to him that it would have been more “feminine” if she had instantly read in his eyes why he had come.  But when he answered:  “Yes—­I found I had to see you,” her happy blushes took the chill from her surprise, and he saw how easily he would be forgiven, and how soon even Mr. Letterblair’s mild disapproval would be smiled away by a tolerant family.