The chill silent night was a relief to Stacey, and perhaps to the girl, after the heated promiscuity of the road-house. An aloof wintry moon shone coldly on the white fields and made the frozen ponds glitter.

Stacey and Ethel might have been husband and wife from their nonchalant indifference to conversation. They hardly spoke on the long ride; yet there was no constraint between them. Once he asked her if she was cold, and she said that she was not; and once she observed that there was a bad grade a little way ahead, and he noted idly to himself the absence of self-consciousness with which she admitted to knowing the road.

“I suppose,” he remarked, in a matter-of-fact tone, as they drew near West Boyd, “that I’d better register us as man and wife under some fancy name?”

The girl turned her head toward him slowly. “For my sake or your own?” she inquired coolly.

“For neither. To save the hotel’s face and avoid annoyance for us.”

She nodded, as though satisfied.

She entered the inn unconcernedly, except that she wrinkled her forehead and half closed her strange eyes in the sudden brightness, and she stood with equal unconcern by Stacey’s side while he registered and asked for a room. Yet even he, who was hardly at all curious about her, recognized that her calm was not the mere callousness of the prostitute. It was easy, not hard, and so it seemed to arise not from outer experience—however much experience she might have had—but from an inner indifference to facts. So, at any rate, Stacey thought; then thought no more about it.

When a bell-boy had accompanied them to their room and set down their bags and departed, closing the door upon them, she slipped out of her heavy coat and removed her hat gracefully. But then, at last, she turned slowly to Stacey, who had been standing, watching her. Still in silence, they gazed into each other’s eyes profoundly, as they had, two hours earlier, at dinner. The girl’s mouth trembled. Suddenly they kissed.

“You—you’re—brutal!” she stammered, much later, panting, her face convulsed in a savage ecstasy of delight.

“Well—and you?”

They remained at the inn for five days. But though physically their relation was unrestrained, entire, frenzied, no faintest intimacy of any other kind grew up between them, unless it may be counted as intimacy that they were perfectly at ease with each other in their hours of bodily calm, and could walk together across the frozen fields, silent or nearly so, unembarrassed, each thinking his own thoughts. Ethel might almost swoon in Stacey’s embrace; a moment after, her dark eyes, that had been moist and dilated, would become as unfathomable as ever. And, as for him, he might, and did, serve passion recklessly until pleasure turned to pain; nothing would come of it all, nothing be left over, no emotion, not even a grateful memory of delight, not even disgust,—only emptiness. Never in soft moments of assuagement did tenderness start up in him or show in her.

They talked, of course. And they did not say sharp things or get on one another’s nerves. They were not enemies. They talked only of general subjects, dispassionately, objectively. Or, rather, all subjects, even ideas, became external when Stacey and Ethel spoke of them. Yet the girl talked well and intelligently. It was simply that she revealed no emotional interest in anything they discussed. She seemed as detached and indifferent as he. But this, though it made their association comfortable, was not a bond between them.

Only once did their two personalities become conscious of each other and touch and draw a spark. When this happened it was immediately apparent that, though Ethel and Stacey were not enemies, they were antagonists, facing one another warily.

It was on the last morning of their stay. The girl was lying motionless on the bed, in the pose of Manet’s “Olympe” and with much the same exotic appearance. Stacey was sprawling in a chintz-covered rocker. He was suffering from a kind of bleak despair; for he was reflecting that everything he had done was impotent to destroy his desire for Marian. This was unfair, he thought sullenly, since his desire for Marian, too, was purely physical. Why, then, should not this liaison suffice? So, when Ethel spoke to him he answered her curtly.

“Isn’t it time,” she observed, without moving, “that you asked me about my past life, how I reached this regrettable condition, and so forth?”

He looked up slowly and considered her. “No,” he said, “I’m not interested.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Dear me! Not at all? How disrespectful of conventions! Why? Because you despise me?”

“You know I don’t despise you,” he replied indifferently. “Moreover, you don’t care whether I do or not.”

She smiled a little at this. “I don’t think that in all these five days I’ve expressed any appreciation of you,” she went on coolly. “You’re really very satisfactory. Now that’s what marriage ought to be like. Two healthy animals taking all the sharp pleasure they can from one another and letting each other’s immortal souls alone. Silly that they should be immortal, isn’t it? Perhaps they’re not. I think they must be, though; they’re so completely solitary. Nobody can ever have made them, they’re so solitary. They must always have been,—like stars in the empty sky; and so they must always go on.”

He felt interest now at last. She was strange.

“I was with the Colin Jeffries’ until recently,” she went on, in the same cool tone and not even troubling to explain her revelation. Indeed, it was not like a personal revelation. She seemed to Stacey to be merely meditating aloud—and about a third person. “With the Colin Jeffries’—as governess to their children.”

Stacey smiled.

“An impossible house,” she continued imperturbably. “Mrs. Jeffries is the kind of woman who wants to dig into every one’s mind and pull out the weeds and plant it with proper vegetables—cabbages and such—in rows. And Mr. Jeffries is tiresomely lecherous. He was always trying to get into my bedroom. Once he hid in my bath.”

Stacey laughed. “I didn’t know that, of course,” he said, “but I might have guessed it. Any such public institution as Colin Jeffries must have to take it out privately somehow. I can see why you went away. Still I think you might have found something a little better than Ames Price.”

“Oh,” she explained simply, “I didn’t take him on at once. I had an idea that there might be something more interesting in a disorderly life than an orderly one. Silly, wasn’t it? One’s as dull as the other. Ames is really as good a solution as any. He is generous with money and unperturbing.”

Stacey frowned. “That reminds me,” he said. “We’ll have to go back to-day. I’m about at the end of my money and I have almost none in the bank.”

She expressed no surprise at this, even by a look, though she must have known that he was supposed to be rich. But a shadow of regret did cross her face. She gazed at him, and he at her.

“Come here!” she said finally.

He obeyed. His eyes caressed her slim form somberly. “Your body is as strange as your face!” he muttered.

She shivered, set her teeth, and stared at him in a fury of desire.

They left the inn early on the afternoon of that day and drove back over the road that led to Clarefield and Vernon. They were as separate as ever mentally, but they talked rather more freely, and Stacey, though he felt neither love nor friendship for the girl, felt esteem for her because she existed proudly by herself. He would not have her bruised. He would defend her in a matter-of-fact way from trouble, as one might defend a stranger from physical attack.

So: “What are you going to do,” he demanded suddenly, “when you get back to Vernon?”

“Go to my apartment,” she returned. “The one Ames took for me. Ames will come back.” She smiled faintly. “Are you concerned lest you’ve ruined my prospects?”

“Yes, of course,” he said unemotionally.

“How noble of you! Don’t worry. You haven’t.”

All at once he laughed. “I was thinking what a marvellous judge of character Ames is,” he observed. “‘Not warm or cold, Ethel, but friendly!’”

The girl turned her head and looked at him strangely, but this time without smiling.

At Clarefield they drove up to Bell’s Tavern where their adventure had begun, intending to warm themselves before going on. They sat down in the booth where Ethel had sat with Ames Price on the night of Whittaker’s dinner. Stacey reflected moodily, while they waited for the drinks he ordered, that, though nearly a week had passed since that evening, nothing whatever had happened. He had succeeded in staying away from Marian, but he wanted her as much now as he had wanted her then. Five full days of this affair with Ethel had not added a fraction to what he felt and was at the beginning of it, or taken a fraction away. If time were to be set back, the interlude wiped out, and he were to find himself sitting again with Whittaker and Minnie, looking across at Ames drunk, nothing would be changed.

But he was awakened from this reverie by the desk-clerk, who came up and touched his arm.

“Are you Mr. Stacey Carroll, sir?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so,” said the clerk. “I remember your cashing a check here last Saturday night. This telegram came for you two days ago. We didn’t know what to do about it, and so we just held it, thinking maybe you’d be back.”

“Thanks,” said Stacey, taking it. “Can’t imagine who’d address me here except Whittaker,” he observed to Ethel, as he tore open the yellow envelope, “and he’d have sent any message to West Boyd.”

But, as he glanced at the telegram, he started.

“Philip dangerously ill with pneumonia. Come at once. Catherine,” it read.

Stacey pushed back his chair and got up quickly. “We’ll have to go—at once!” he said. “A friend of mine is ill—pneumonia.”

She rose. “Your face is pale,” she observed, as he reached for her coat, “You really do care about something, don’t you?”

He nodded, holding out the coat.

“You ought to be glad,” she concluded, slipping it on. “I’m ready.”

“Drink your high-ball first—as quickly as you can,” he said, not unkindly.

“No,” she returned, “I don’t care about it. Come! Let’s go.”

He flung money on the table and hurried the girl out. “And the message is two days old!” he muttered, wondering dully who could have told Catherine he was at Clarefield.

He drove the car to Vernon at a tremendous speed, Ethel sitting silent by his side. He spoke but once, to ask her the address of her apartment.

But when they drew up in front of it and he had helped her out, he stood with her for just a moment on the sidewalk. For all that he was feeling anxiety for his friend so strongly as almost to wipe everything else from his mind, he nevertheless—and even, somehow, because of this—felt now at last a touch of human interest in Ethel.

“If you ever need anything at all—or want to see me for any reason, call me up at my house,” he said inadequately.

“Thanks,” she murmured. “Good-bye.”

He sprang back into the car and drove swiftly to Phil’s house.

There was another car standing at the curb. “The doctor’s!” he thought, with sudden hope.

Stacey did not ring, but opened the door softly and walked into the living-room.

Catherine was sitting there, like some expressionless Byzantine Madonna, with Carter in her arms. He was sleeping, his flushed face and tousled yellow hair against her breast, his legs dangling limply from her lap. There was no one else in the room. Catherine looked up as Stacey entered, but she did not speak.

He stared at her. “Phil?” he demanded in a low voice.

The shadowy expression on her face deepened until it was unmistakable pain and fatigue, but still she did not speak.

“Dead?” Stacey cried hoarsely.

“Yes,” she replied gently, “he died last night—very peacefully.”

Stacey sat down suddenly and turned his head away. Tears did not come to his eyes, but he gasped, a choking feeling in his throat that made it hard for him to breathe.

“Poor Stacey!” said Catherine softly, after a little.

“Poor me?!” he exclaimed, “oh! ... I only got your telegram an hour ago.”

“Of course. I knew you couldn’t have got it.”

Stacey became aware of the sound of feet moving on the floor above. “Who’s—up there?” he inquired.

Catherine’s lip trembled. “People doing—the things that have to be done.”

He winced. “And you’re—left alone here!” he murmured.

“I’d rather be. Mrs. Latimer has just gone. She took Jackie.”

“Do you want me to go?” he stammered.

“No—please!”

They sat there in silence for a long time. At last the solemn professional people came down from upstairs and went out, bowing gravely to Catherine. Then Mrs. Latimer returned. She looked at Stacey, first in surprise, then compassionately.

“You’d better go now, Stacey,” Catherine said. “I shall be all right. Mrs. Latimer and I must put Carter to bed. Would you like to go up and—look at Phil?”

He nodded. “Thanks!” he said, choking.

He stumbled up the stairs, went into Phil’s room, and stood there for some time, looking down at the peaceful emaciated face. Stacey was suffering acute pain and—worse than that—a deeper sense of desolation than he had yet felt. He had not dreamed that he cared so much for Phil. To have shown him so in some way! To have given something decent and human in return for Phil’s warm gentleness! The best that Stacey could do for comfort was to remember that the last time he had seen Phil he had shaken his hand at parting. Only that!

Stacey went downstairs finally and out of the house. He drove home, then sat down wearily to write a note to Whittaker thanking him for the car. He gave the note to Parker and told him to have the chauffeur take it, as soon as possible, with the car, to Whittaker’s house. He did not feel irony or bitterness or scorn of himself in doing these things. They were merely things that had to be done. He was through with proud hostility of spirit; he was beaten. But he did not say this to himself, either.

His father came home before very long. He was gentle with Stacey, asked him no questions, tried even to veil the look of apprehensiveness in his own eyes. And Stacey recognized his kindness, the sweetness of nature that lay beneath Mr. Carroll’s set firmness,—recognized all his father’s virtues, more clearly and justly than ever before. But it was as though he were recognizing the virtues of a convincing figure in a two-dimensioned movie play. The world of men had become a world of shadows to Stacey.

Catherine alone he felt as a real person—no doubt because she was suffering the same sorrow as he. He spent all the time with her that she would permit, and while the funeral service was being held in the sitting-room of the little house he sat with her and Carter upstairs in Phil’s old room. They were both silent, save when they spoke comfortingly to the frightened weeping boy. They could hear the grave accents of the clergyman’s voice downstairs.

“What are you going to do, Catherine?” he asked her one morning two or three days later. “Shall you go back to New York—to your sister’s?”

She shook her head. “No, I’ll stay here for now, I think,” she replied. “The house rent is paid for a long time ahead, and I don’t want to take the boys out of school.”

“Do you need money? You must tell me if you do.”

“No—thanks,” she answered simply. “I have plenty for now, and”—her eyes drooped wearily—“Phil carried—quite heavy insurance. Your father, too, asked me that,” she added. “He’s been awfully good.”

“He would be,” said Stacey drearily.

Catherine considered him sadly. “Stacey,” she said, “you look dreadfully ill.”

“I feel a bit fagged,” he admitted. “I’ve been thinking that towards spring I might go down to father’s place in North Carolina.”

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “yes! But why not go now?”

“Well,” he said hesitatingly, then paused.

“I know. You’d like to help me. But there’s nothing you can do, Stacey. That’s sad, but it’s so. It only—”

“Yes. Gives you an extra worry.” He gazed at her. “Odd,” he thought, “how strong you are! Stronger than Phil, stronger than I!” But he only said yes, that he would go.

His father greeted the suggestion almost joyfully. “The best thing possible!” he exclaimed. “There’s the house, standing empty—hardly been used six months in ten years. Saddle horse eating his head off in the stable—old Elijah perishing for want of conversation. I was down there for a couple of months two years ago, but it bored me. I haven’t cared for the place since your mother died.”

Stacey nodded. “I understand how you feel about it,” he said. And, indeed, he did for a moment receive a sudden poignant memory of their winter life down there when his mother had been alive and they had all been young and gay. The memory faded almost at once. “Then I might as well be off some day this week, sir,” he remarked.

“You’d better wait till after Christmas,” said his father. “Er—Julie’s rather counting on Christmas together.”

“Of course,” Stacey assented remorsefully.

“Mind you have Elijah look after Duke’s feet,” Mr. Carroll added, in obvious haste to avoid the appearance of sentiment. “His hoofs were always brittle.”

So presently, Christmas over, Stacey departed. It was capitulation, but he did not care about that. The only thing that interested him—and this but idly—was that he should so crave to get away from men and women when men and women had become such intangible phantoms.

For the rest, there was only the heavy sense of Phil’s death and of Catherine bearing up under it bravely.