But Tarvrille restrained his forbidding arm, and then after a second's interval put a hand on my shoulder. "Come," he said.... And so it was Mary and I parted from one another. CHAPTER THE SEVENTH BEGINNING AGAIN § 1 In operas and romances one goes from such a parting in a splendid dignity of gloom. But I am no hero, and I went down the big staircase of Tarvrille's house the empty shuck of an abandoned desire. I was acutely ashamed of my recent tears. In the centre of the hall was a marble figure swathed about with yellow muslin. "On account of the flies," I said, breaking our silence. My words were far too unexpected for Tarvrille to understand. "The flies," I repeated with an air of explanation. "You're sure she'll be all right?" I said abruptly. "You've done the best thing you can for her." "I suppose I have. I have to go." And then I saw ahead of me a world full of the tiresome need of decisions and arrangements and empty of all interest. "Where the _devil_ am I to go, Tarvrille? I can't even get out of things altogether...." And then with a fresh realization of painful difficulties ahead: "I have to tell this to my father. I've got to explain---- And he thought--he expected----" Tarvrille opened the half of the heavy front door for me, hesitated, and came down the broad steps into the chilly grey street and a few yards along the pavement with me. He wanted to say something that he found difficult to say. When at last he did find words they were quite ridiculous in substance, and yet at the time I took them as gravely as he intended them. "It's no good quoting Marcus Aurelius," said Tarvrille, "to a chap with his finger in the crack of a door." "I suppose it isn't," I said. "One doesn't want to be a flatulent ass of course," said Tarvrille, "still----" He resumed with an air of plunging. "It will sound just rot to you now, Stratton, but after all it comes to this. Behind us is a--situation--with half-a-dozen particular persons. Out here--I mean here round the world--before you've done with them--there's a thousand million people--men and women." "Oh! what does that matter to me?" said I. "Everything," said Tarvrille. "At least--it ought to." He stopped and held out his hand. "Good-bye, Stratton--good luck to you! Good-bye." "Yes," I said. "Good-bye." I turned away from him. The image of Mary crying as a child cries suddenly blinded me and blotted out the world. § 2