Gurdy walked away and a clerk from Mark’s office brushed by him with a papered load of yellow roses. The boy turned and saw Olive take these against her black furs. She stood graciously thanking the clerk for a moment, smiling. Then she stepped into the vestibule and the train stirred. Gurdy walked on. The colossal motion of the crowd in the brilliant station was a relief and a band hammered out some military march by a Red Cross booth. His spirit lifted; the strained waiting of three days was done; Margot was gone; Gurdy wouldn’t have to watch Mark’s piteous effort at normality. He found his uncle alone in the office at the 45th Street Theatre, studying a model for a scene and swiftly Mark asked, “I sent Jim with some--” “He got there.” Mark sighed and rubbed his hair. Everything confused him. He hoped Olive would forgive him for not coming to the station. That had been cowardly. He said, “Ought to have gone along, son.... Afraid I’d say something I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t have let you do it alone. This is worse on you than it is on me. I--” “Mark, on my honour, I’m not in love with Margot!” He lied so nobly that Mark wondered at him and brought out a thin chuckle. “You’re a card, son!... If I didn’t know better I’d almost believe you.... Well, take a look at this set. That left wall looks kind of dark to me. It’s ox blood and it might light up with spots on it. What d’you think?” Callers interfered. Gurdy went down the stairs into the lobby packed with women who came out from the matinée. All these decorated bodies flowed left and right about a dull blue placard announcing, “Early in December The Walling Theatre will open with ‘Captain Salvador’ by Stephen O’Mara,” and some women paused, drawing on gloves, fussing with veils. A slim and black haired girl stared boldly at Gurdy, passing him. She wasn’t like Margot but he hated her for an instant and then stalked up Sixth Avenue where the lights of restaurants roused in the dusk and the crowd of Saturday evening brayed. In ten cool blocks Gurdy captured his philosophy, held it firmly; Mark was unreasonably hurt--in fact, Mark was an old-fashioned, unphilosophic fellow who hadn’t progressed, was still a country boy in essence, hadn’t even gained the inferior cynicism of his trade and friends. He was letting himself be bullied by Cora Boyle on an antique concept. Why should he let himself be laughed at and lose money for this immaterial thing? Gurdy succeeded in getting angry at Mark and tramped about the blue library preparing a lecture, saw a glove of Margot’s on a table and tossed it into a waste basket. He could imagine Mark shedding tears over that empty glove and its presence in the copper basket fretted Gurdy. He plucked it forth and flung it into the fire of cedar logs where it made a satisfactory hiss, blackening. It must have been perfumed. A scent floated out of the fire. Gurdy grinned over the symbol and poked the remnant which crumbled and was nothing.