not sacrifice her. He could not rob her of the chance of being loved
as she could love. Such a love might come to her some day; he could
but leave her free for it.

As he walked homeward along the silent, wide street, other gardens than
Charlotte's flung their fragrance to him; the night still whispered to
him of the sweetness of being loved, of all those compensations from
which he had turned away. But he was not allured; he was not
vanquished. His course stretched before him--through the befogging,
unmanning sweetness--to daylight and self-respect and an uncompromising
sincerity of life. It stretched before him farther than he could
descry--as far as the great fighting, suffering, achieving world. Mrs.
Caldwell had once told him that he had never grown up, and that some
day he would have to grow up; that there could be no escape for him.
She had been right about it. Until now he had not grown up. Not even
in his love for Sheila and the pain of it, had he grown up. He had
been like a child playing in a garden, and though the sweetest rose
there had torn him with its thorns, he had stayed on in the garden.
But now he was a child no longer; there had been no escape from growing
up. He had put it off a long time--more than half his lifetime
perhaps--but he had not been able to put it off forever. And now,
yielding at last, he was willing to leave his garden; he was willing to
go out into the world of men.

As he neared the hotel where he lived, he met Ted Kent, quitting his
office--going home to Sheila.

At once Ted stopped and put out his hand. For in his mind no hostility
against Peter had lingered. Indeed, on the occasion when he had
upbraided Sheila about Peter, he had felt very little animosity toward
Peter himself, and several months having passed in a strict compliance
to his wishes on Sheila's part, the whole matter had almost vanished
from his memory. His was not a nature to cherish resentment, to brood
over fancied wrongs; he liked to be at peace with all his fellow-men
and upon genial terms with them. He was animated by a distinct
cordiality toward Peter now, as he extended his hand to him.

"Been calling on the girls, Burnett?" he inquired jovially.

"On one of them," admitted Peter.

"Well, it's been a long while since I did anything like that--a long
while. And I'm not sorry either. There's nothing like your slippers
and your pipe and your paper at home! When I have to work late, as I