I could not invent even a flimsy
excuse. So I went in. The coffee was tasteless. I put in four lumps
of sugar. I stirred and stirred and stirred. Finally, I swallowed the
contents of the cup. It was very hot. When the agony was past I rose
and made my adieu.

Phyllis came to the door with me.

"Forget what I have said," I began, fumbling the door-knob. "I suppose
I was an ass to think that you might love me. They say that it is a
malady. Very well. With a few prescribed remedies I shall recover."

"You are very bitter."

"Can you blame me," clicking the latch back and forth, "when all the
world has suddenly grown dark?"

"There are other eyes than mine," gently.

"Yes; but they will light other paths than those I shall follow."

"Jack, you are too manly to make threats."

"That was not a threat," said I. "Well, I shall go and laugh at myself
for my presumption. To laugh at yourself is to cure. There is no more
wine in the cup, nothing but the lees. I'll have to drink them. A wry
face, and then it will all be over. Yes, I am bitter. To have dreamed
as I have dreamed, and to awake as I have! Ah, well; I must go on
loving you till--"

"Till she comes," supplemented Phyllis.

"You wrong me. It is only in letters that I am versatile. Forgive my
bitterness and forget my folly."

"Oh, Jack, if you knew how sorry I am! I shall forgive the bitterness,
but I will not forget what you term folly. It's something any woman
might be proud of, the love of an honest, dear, good fellow. Good
night." She held her hand toward me.

"Good night," I said, "and God bless you!" I kissed the palm of her
hand, opened the door, and then stumbled down the steps.

I do not remember how I reached home.

It was all over.

My beautiful castle had fallen in ruins about my ears.

CHAPTER II

In my bedroom the next morning there was a sad and heavy heart. The
owner woke up, stared at the ceiling, then at the sun-baked bricks
beyond his window. He saw not the glory of the sun and the heavens.
To his eyes there was nothing poetic in the flash of the distant
church-spires against the billowy cloudbanks. The gray doves, circling
about the chimneys, did not inspire him, nor the twittering of the
sparrows on the window ledge. There was nothing at all in the world
but a long stretch of barren, lonely years. And he wondered how,
without her at his side, he ever could traverse them. He was driftwood
agai