book. She had lost her interest in the characters. Fiction! What
stuff it was compared to the reality of her own life! No, it was
impossible. She must do something. She went to her dressing-room and
selected a street dress. She took pleasure in putting on the plainest
costume she could find, rejecting every ornament, everything but the
necessary and the simple. She wanted to get back to herself. Her maid
appeared in response to the bell.

"I am going out, Marie."

"Will madame have the carriage?"

"No, I will walk; I need exercise. Tell Jackson not to serve lunch."

Yes, she would walk; for it was his carriage, after all.

It was after mid-day. In the keen air and the bright sunshine the streets
were brilliant. Margaret walked on up the avenue. How gay was the city,
what a zest of life in the animated scene! The throng increased as she
approached Twenty-third Street. In the place where three or four currents
meet there was the usual jam of carriages, furniture wagons, carts, cars,
and hurried, timid, half-bewildered passengers trying to make their way
through it. It was all such a whirl and confusion. A policeman aided
Margaret to gain the side of the square. Children were playing there;
white-capped maids were pushing about baby-carriages; the sparrows
chattered and fought with as much vivacity as if they were natives of the
city instead of foreigners in possession. It seemed all so empty and
unreal. What was she, one woman with an aching heart, in the midst of it
all? What had she done? How could she have acted otherwise? Was he still
angry with her? The city was so vast and cruel. On the avenue again there
was the same unceasing roar of carts and carriages; business, pleasure,
fashion, idleness, the stream always went by. From one and another
carriage Margaret received a bow, a cool nod, or a smile of greeting.
Perhaps the occupants wondered to see her on foot and alone. What did it
matter? How heartless it all was! what an empty pageant! If he was
alienated, there was nothing. And yet she was right. For a moment she
thought of the Arbusers. She thought of Carmen. She must see somebody.
No, she couldn't talk. She couldn't trust herself. She must bear it
alone.

And how weary it was, walking, walking, with such a burden! House after
house, street after street, closed doors, repellant fronts, staring at
her. Suppose she were poor and hungry, a woman wandering forlorn, how
stony and pitiless these insolent mansion