It was not until we were back at the office again that either Mr. Royce or myself ventured a comment upon this extraordinary story. Even then, we found very little to say. Nothing could be done to divert the blow; nothing even to lessen its severity. Burr Curtiss and Marcia Lawrence must endure their fate with such courage as they could; must forget; at least, must strive to soften love into affection. How would they regard each other, I wondered? Would the mere fact of revealed relationship alter their old feeling, or would love survive to torture them? They had in common no brotherly-and-sisterly instincts or experiences; they were unchanged; they were still maid and lover, as they had always been. The days passed, and in the stress of work at the office, the memory of Burr Curtiss and his fortunes gradually became less vivid, until I began to hope that, in time, it might really cease to worry me. But one morning, Mr. Royce looked up from his paper, his eyes shining. "The _Umbria_ reached Liverpool this morning," he said, in a voice not wholly steady. "It's all over by this time. I wonder how they bore it?" "Bravely, I've no doubt," I answered, but I trembled at thought of it. How had she summoned courage to tell him? "He'll come home, I think," added Mr. Royce, pursuing his own thoughts. "They could hardly stay abroad together; their relationship, of course, will always remain a secret----" The office boy entered and laid a little envelope at his elbow. He tore it open quickly and read its contents at a glance. "It's a cable from Curtiss," he said, and passed it over to me. "_Oceanic_ delayed engine break-down," I read. "Reached Liverpool five hours after _Umbria_. Missed Marcia but searching for her. Cable care Hotel Adelphi." Mr. Royce sat for a moment drumming nervously upon his chair-arm. "He hasn't any chance of finding her in a place like that," he said, at last. "Most probably she's gone on to London." "Or to some place on the continent. There must be many places where she'd feel at home." "What would we better do? Shall we write out the story and mail it to Curtiss? He'll get it in a week." "He won't stay at Liverpool a week," I objected. "The letter might go astray, and be opened by some one who had no right to read it." "We might cable a mere outline." I thought it over; but somehow my point of view had changed. Now that I knew the story, it seemed to me that it was Marcia Lawrence's right to decide what step should be taken next. Once she had recovered her self-poise, she would see what course was best, and I was certain that she would be brave enough, strong enough, to follow it unshrinking to the end. "Let us wait," I said. "A little delay can do no harm; just as haste can do no good." "Yes; I believe that's best," agreed our junior. "Nothing we can do will help them. They must work out the problem for themselves."