AFTER his father left Tommy sat in the dining-room. The Herald lay unopened beside his plate, but he knew without trying that he could not read. Presently he found that he could not sit quietly. He went out of the house, that he might not think about the one thing that he could not help thinking about. Thinking about it did not end the trouble. But on the street he found that he did not wish to see front stoops or shop windows, so he decided to walk in the park. There, surrounded by the new green growth of grass and trees, he might be able to think of his own new life, the life that was beginning to bud out.

He thought about it without words, for that was the way his mind worked. And it was not long before he began to take notice of the sun-loving nurses and the blinking babies—human beings enjoying the azure smiles of the sky.

A girl on horseback cantered by. He looked up. Through the sparse fringe of bushes that screened off the bridle path from the nurses' favorite benches he saw Marion Willetts on a beautiful black. She also saw him and reined up suddenly, as though he had commanded her to halt. He walked toward her with outstretched hands. She urged her horse toward him with a smile. “Why, Tommy, I thought you—”

She had never before called him Tommy, as though that were his own particular name, that differentiated him from all other Tommies.

“I am waiting for a letter,” he explained at once, without going through the formality of inquiring after her health, because he knew now that he did not wish to go away. That made his departure the one important thing in the world. Then, by one of those subtle reactions that often afflict the young and healthy, the necessity of it became more urgent. He must go to work far away from New York! And the second reaction, circling back to his starting-point: To go away from the pleasant things of New York meant a renunciation so tremendous that he felt himself entitled to much credit. And that made him look quite serious. And that made him smile the smile of the dead game sport who will not lie about it by laughing boisterously.

There was a silence as they shook hands. Neither knew what to say. Perhaps that is why they took so long to shake hands. He knew that she did not know the tragedy of his life, and so did she. It gave them a point of contact.

Finally she said, “I wish you had a horse so we could—”

He shook his head and smiled. The smile made her feel the completeness of Tommy's tragedy. Details were unnecessary; in fact, it was just as well that she did not know them. It was all she could stand as it was.

He had to speak. He said: “I wish so, too, Marion,” using her name for the first time, reverently. “But I—I mustn't.”

“I'm so sorry, Tommy,” she murmured.

“Oh, well—” he said. Her horse began to show signs of impatience. It made him ask, hastily, but very seriously: “I'd like to—May I write to you, Marion?”

“Will you, Tommy? Of course you will. Won't you?”

There was not time for flippancy. He said, “Yes.” There were a million things he wished to tell her. He selected the first, “Thank you, Marion.”

“D-don't m-mention it,” she said, reassuringly.

He almost heard a voice crying, “All ashore that's goin' ashore!” It made him say, hurriedly: “Good-by, Marion. You're a brick!”

“It's you who are one,” she said.

He held out his hand. “Good-by!” he said again, and looked straight into her eyes.

She looked away and said: “G-good-by, Tommy! Good luck!”

“Thanks! I'll—I'll write!” And he turned away quickly. This compelled him to relinquish the gauntleted little hand he was gripping so tightly. The steel chain thus having snapped, he walked away and did not look back.

The fight had begun. His first battle was against his own desire to turn his head and catch one more glimpse of her, to memorize her face. He won! And in the hour of his first victory he felt very lonely.