of it fortitude; in her long
reveries she grew at last to think of it in unspoken words which, if
written down, would have been almost poetry.

But though she thus idealized his bravery, she did not have to idealize
his kindness; that had been real. He had not cared about her money, she
had divined that; what he did had been done for herself alone. When,
therefore, they met again, as they did in the winter, the acquaintance
continued to grow because she fostered it; she had had time to think
everything over, to realize what it would be to live without it, during
the four months that had passed since they parted. Lucian, responsive
and delightful as ever, and never so conceited (this is what he would
have called it) as to bring that pretentious thing, conscience, into
such a simple matter as this, lent himself, as it were, to her liking
for the time being, whenever he happened to see her. With him it was a
temporary and even a local interest, and he supposed it to be the same
on her side; when he thought of the part of the city in which she lived,
he thought of her: "Second Avenue--oh yes, Miss Bogardus;" but he did
not think of it or of her for days together, he was a man who had a
thousand interests, who roamed in many and widely differing fields.
Meanwhile Miss Bogardus thought of him without ceasing; she lived upon
his visits, going over in her own mind the last one, and all that he had
said, or failed to say, upon that occasion, until he had come again; she
dwelt upon every look and gesture, and made the woman's usual mistake of
giving a significance to little acts and phrases which they were very
far from having. Lucian did not in the least realize that he was the
subject of so much reverie; nor did he in the least realize the
absorbed, concentrated nature with which he had to do. His life moved on
with its usual evenness; for three-quarters of the day he occupied
himself in a third-story office, then he sallied forth to see what the
remaining hours held for him in the way of entertainment. It is but just
to say that generally they held an abundance; other people liked him
besides Rosalie Bogardus, he was a man who, from first to last, was dear
to very many. About once in so often he went to see his friend of the
summer; he no longer thought of her as a person who needed his help
especially; but he knew that a visit pleased her, and, when other things
were not over-amusing, he would go for a while and give her that