They shook hands again in friendliest fashion, and she opened the front door for him. And her farewell smile was bright and happy. VII In the cold clear open he proceeded to take the usual account of stock--with dismal results. She had wound him round her fingers, had made him say only the things he should not have said, and leave unsaid the things that might have furthered his purposes. He had conducted the affair ridiculously--"just what is to be expected of an infatuated fool." However, there was no consolation in the discovery that he was reduced, after all these years of experience, to the common level--man weak and credulous in his dealings with woman. He hoped that his disgust with himself would lead on to disgust, or, rather, distaste for her. It is the primal instinct of vanity to dislike and to shun those who have witnessed its humiliation. "I believe I am coming to my senses," he said. And he ventured to call her up before him for examination and criticism. This as he stood upon the forward deck of the ferry with the magnificent panorama of New York before him. New York! And he, of its strong men, of the few in all that multitude who had rank and power--he who had won as his promised wife the daughter of one of the dozen mighty ones of the nation! What an ill-timed, what an absurd, what a crazy step down this excursion of his! And for what? There he summoned her before him. And at the first glance of his fancy at her fair sweet face and lovely figure, he quailed. He was hearing her voice again. He was feeling the yield of her smooth, round form to his embrace, the yield of her smooth white cheek to his caress. In his nostrils was the fragrance of her youth, the matchless perfume of nature, beyond any of the distillations of art in its appeal to his normal and healthy nerves. And he burned with the fire only she could quench. "I must--I must.--My God, I _must_!" he muttered. When he reached home, he asked whether his sister was in. The butler said that Mrs. Fitzhugh had just come from the theater. In search of her, he went to the library, found her seated there with a book and a cigarette, her wrap thrown back upon her chair. "Come out to supper with me, Ursula," he said. "I'm starved and bored." "Why, you're not dressed!" exclaimed his sister. "I thought you were at the Cameron dance with Josephine." "Had to cut it out," replied he curtly. "Will you come?" "I can't eat, but I'll drink. Yes, let's have a spree. It's been years since we had one--not since we were poor. Let's not go to a _deadly_ respectable place. Let's go where there are some of the other kind, too." "But I must have food. Why not the Martin?" "That'll do--though I'd prefer something a little farther up Broadway." "The Martin is gay enough. The truth is, there's nothing really gay any more. There's too much money. Money suffocates gayety."