One last reminder of his ordinary self intruded into his mind, the façade of the bank on Fifth Avenue, symbol of twelve years of sturdy effort in the realm of common sense. But it seemed to have no relation whatever to this moment, and it faded and was gone. He stood looking at the girl for the space of a breath; then he walked over to her through a tangle of moonlight that broke through the branches of an elm. _IV. Afterward._ The milk wagons were rattling over the streets when he went back through the ivory gate, and he could hear the typewriter still clattering within the house. He went silently to the guest room. The adventure was over, and now he had to think about its relation to actuality. But he did not think; he fell asleep. At the bank there were other matters to occupy his mind. On the train to the country that afternoon there was a neighbour who talked about financial conditions. At the end of the ride there was his wife’s welcome and the children climbing into his arms. It wasn’t until after dinner that he had any time to think. He was rather surprised at his thoughts. They were, first of all, thoughts of relief at being back at home. It was as if he had strayed for a few hours out of time and space, and was happy to find himself again safely within the cosy contours of the familiar. He was glad to be back in a world that had a meaning beyond the moment, a world that reached back in memory and forward in hope, the world of reality. As a happy citizen of this comfortable world, he was naturally concerned with the inquiry whether his position in it had been endangered by last night’s adventure. And it seemed to him that he need have no fear. That adventure was a thing utterly apart from all the rest of his life--a thing complete and perfect in itself, with no sequel to be feared or hoped for; they did not even know each other’s names. She herself had preferred that it should be so. “And,” she had said, “you needn’t fear that it will ever be made commonplace by our meeting at a tea somewhere; you will never see me again.” And he had said, laughing: “You speak as though you were going to die or going on a very long journey!” “Yes,” she said; “something like that. You mustn’t ask me about it, only take my word for it.” And he believed her. Why, he did not know. But to-day he was glad to be so sure that their adventure was ended and that no one but themselves could ever know about it.... He had asked his friend the story-writer over their morning coffee: “Who lives in that little white house next door, a writer?” and was told, “A school-teacher, I believe.” Evidently his friend did not know of the school-teacher’s guest. No; so far as all the world was concerned, there had been no midnight adventure. It was as detached from reality, as immaterial from any common-sense point of view, as if it had been merely a story he had read in a magazine that night. He might, if he wished, think of it as that.