assing in the street would
observe her, and then slipped the ring over the fourth finger of her
left hand. She gazed at it with a guilty smile, and then, covering it
hastily with her other hand, leaned back, clasping it closely, and sat
frowning far out before her with puzzled eyes.

To Carroll all roads led past Helen's studio, and during the summer,
while she had been absent in Scotland, it was one of his sad pleasures
to make a pilgrimage to her street and to pause opposite the house and
look up at the empty windows of her rooms. It was during this daily
exercise that he learned, through the arrival of her luggage, of her
return to London, and when day followed day without her having shown
any desire to see him or to tell him of her return, he denounced
himself most bitterly as a fatuous fool.

At the end of the week he sat down and considered his case quite
calmly. For three years he had loved this girl, deeply and tenderly.
He had been lover, brother, friend, and guardian. During that time,
even though she had accepted him in every capacity except as that of
the prospective husband, she had never given him any real affection,
nor sympathy, nor help; all she had done for him had been done without
her knowledge or intent. To know her, to love her, and to scheme to
give her pleasure had been its own reward, and the only one. For the
last few months he had been living like a crossing sweeper in order to
be able to stay in London until she came back to it, and that he might
still send her the gifts he had always laid on her altar. He had not
seen her in three months. Three months that had been to him a blank,
except for his work--which, like all else that he did, was inspired
and carried on for her. Now at last she had returned and had shown
that, even as a friend, he was of so little account in her thoughts,
of so little consequence in her life, that after this long absence she
had no desire to learn of his welfare or to see him--she did not even
give him the chance to see her. And so, placing these facts before him
for the first time since he had loved her, he considered what was due
to himself. "Was it good enough?" he asked. "Was it just that he
should continue to wear out his soul and body for this girl who did
not want what he had to give, who treated him less considerately than
a man whom she met for the first time at dinner?" He felt he had
reached the breaking-point; that the time had come when he must
consid