His face was cold and stern, and he met their anxious, inquiring looks with hard, almost a vacant stare. “I have come to tell you that I sail again for Europe this noon,” he said in a hollow voice. “I simply notify you of my plans that you need not suffer useless anxiety or make needless inquiries.” “Truman——” began his mother, in an humble, tremulous tone, for mental suffering had told somewhat upon her during the last few days. “Please spare me any objections or comments,” he interrupted in a voice that had not a particle of feeling in it. “I shall remain in London with my father until he is able to come home; then I shall send him with Norman. When I shall return I do not know.” “But your house—your horses and carriages,” said Evelyn. “My lawyer will attend to everything,” was the brief reply. “Oh, my son, do not go from us in such a mood as this,” pleaded his mother. He turned upon her with a fierceness that she had never seen in him before. “You have broken my heart and you call it a mood,” he said hoarsely. “But for you two my wife would have been living and happy to-day, and I should not have to go desolate to my grave. I will never forgive you—never!” He turned quickly, as if the sight of them was unendurable, and without another word or even a backward look walked from the room. A moment later they heard the outer door close after him, and knew not whether they would ever see him again. Madame Winthrop buried her face in her handkerchief, a groan of misery bursting from her. Truman—her firstborn—had been her idol all his life, and such a separation as this was a terrible blow to her. Too late she realized that she had plotted and sinned for naught; too late she saw that her ambition and pride had wrought the ruin of several lives. Evelyn burst into a passion of tears and berated her brother as “a hard-hearted brute.” They were very lonely and miserable for a time after that, but callers soon began to crowd in upon them, invitations to dine and to various places of amusement followed, and Evelyn, to drown the voice of conscience, plunged at once into all the gayeties of the season. Madam of course had to accompany her as chaperon, though at first she did so with fear and trembling, for she was in constant dread of meeting inquiries regarding her son’s romantic marriage. But, strangely enough, no one appeared to know anything about it, and the only questions she had to answer were those relating to her husband’s recent illness and expected return. She breathed easier when she found that Salome’s existence seemed a secret, and even, as time went on, began to congratulate herself that things were as they were—“Truman would soon get over his grief, and then—Sadie Rochester again.” The winter passed; spring came; but May began to send forth her buds and blossoms before Mr. Winthrop was thought well enough to endure the voyage.