He had a feeling that she did not see him, was not differentiating between himself and the others, so that it would not matter to her. He would go with that bright vision of her face stamped upon his memory. And if he never had anything else, he would still have that memory. Not just a wide sea with a vanishing ship in the distance.

He elbowed his way through the crowd, and nobody noticed his going unless it was the girl on the ship. There was great bitterness in his heart. He told himself he was sorry he had come. Yet he knew he would not have done otherwise.

Once he thought he heard his name shouted by one of the fellows, but he did not turn his head. He did not want to see that ship afar with a great ocean between.

He had an errand to do for his mother, but he hastened with it and caught an early train back home. He tried to read a paper on the way, but the letters blurred before his eyes, and finally he gave up all pretense and sat there sternly lecturing himself, trying to get a bearable attitude of mind before he got home and his mother read his face and suffered with him. His mother was like that. She always knew when he was suffering.

He told himself it was a good thing Barbara had gone before she knew anything about his troubles. At least he would not have that mortification to worry about. She had gone respecting him, maybe caring more for him than she was willing to let him see, and that was just as it should be. Time would turn her heart to other interests, and she would perhaps never have to know how his circumstances had put him into a place in life where he could never hope to have the assurance to try to win her. And he wanted her not to be hurt as he was being hurt. She would not have to know or understand the attitude he would feel obliged to take toward her, for his pride’s sake. Because he loved her, he hoped—yes, he told himself he really hoped—that she never cared, would never have to feel what he was feeling now. Well, he ought to be glad that her kiss had been light and there was nothing for either of them to regret in it! He ought to be glad that he could remember her happy, carefree face! Perhaps some day he would come to the place where he could be glad about it, but now there was only an ache in his heart. An ache that seemed unbearable when he thought of it as something he might have to carry all his life.

It was late when he reached home. The train was late. There had been a freight accident ahead of the New York train, which delayed them, and he missed one train out to their suburb on the edge of the city, but he saw by the light downstairs that his mother had waited up for him. Mother always would. So as he neared the house, he adjusted a monotonous whistle on his lips and went in trying to simulate cheerful indifference.

But his mother saw through it. She came over and kissed him and looked deep into his eyes, and though he tried to smile naturally and evade her glance, he knew she was not deceived.

“Yes, they got off on time,” he answered readily, too readily. “It was quite a merry send-off. I’m glad I went,” he said, trying to sound quite easy and natural.

“Of course!” said his mother, but her eyes searched him and read further than his words. And then, like a wise mother, instead of pursuing the subject further, she gave him something else to think about.

“The lawyer was here again this evening,” she said with a sigh, as if it wasn’t of much interest. “He said over again all the things he said the last time and a few more. He wanted me to sign the papers right away. He said he had to go west on a business trip, and he’d like to get this settled before he leaves tomorrow night.