She said this with a wan little smile, and all at once thought with terror of her age; there was but four or five years’ difference between Thorndyke and herself, and that difference, at a certain point, becomes transferred to the gentleman’s side of the ledger. Suddenly the spring afternoon seemed to become melancholy and overcast. A sharp wind sprang up from the near-by river; the world turned from gold to gray. At the same moment Thorndyke and Constance rose and walked away from the spot that had been only a little while ago so sweet and sunny. “Why is it,” asked Constance, as they followed the pathway leading out of the park, “a spring morning is the merriest thing in life, and a spring evening the saddest?” “Why should anything be sad to you, spring evenings or any other times?” asked Thorndyke, quietly and with perfect sincerity. “Why should any one be sad at all? Because we are human, I suppose,” was Constance’s answer to this. As they came out upon the streets, which were less deserted than usual, Thorndyke looked toward the south wing of the Capitol. The flag was fluttering down from its flag-staff. “The House has adjourned,” he said, “and some history has been made to-day--likewise a great reputation for our friend Crane.” The brougham was driving up and down, and the coachman, perceiving the graceful black figure on the sidewalk, drove toward them. Thorndyke noted, with disgust, the elegance of the turnout--the two perfectly matched cobs, the silver-mounted harness of Spanish leather, the miniature brougham with “C. M.” in cipher on the panels--the whole must have cost about half his yearly income. This, together with Crane’s remarkable triumph, made him surly, and he said, stiffly, as he assisted Constance into the brougham: “You gave me permission to call to-day.” “Yes, but I withdraw it. It is now nearly three o’clock. I have not had my luncheon, I am tired, and I must rest this afternoon, and I go out to dinner. To-morrow at five.” Her tone and manner discounted her words. It was as if she were saying: “I must save something for to-morrow--I will not be a spendthrift of my joys.” Thorndyke, finding nothing to discompose him in her words, replied, in a very good humour: “It is always to-morrow--but to-morrow is better than not at all. Good-bye.” The brougham rolled off, and Thorndyke stepped aboard a street-car bound for the West End.