He lost
heart and stopped writing himself. What was the use, he asked
himself? Had she not abandoned him? The critical days of the war
were over; peace was assured; the victory won, the country was
already growing forgetful of the victors. Such were his moody
reflections as he paced the deck, hungry for the word that never
came. Yes, he was forgotten. There could be no other explanation
of that long silence. He was forgotten!
He returned in due course to New York and was paid off and
mustered out of the service. It was dusk when he boarded an uptown
car and stood holding to a strap, jostled and pushed about by the
unheeding crowd. Already jealous of his uniform, he felt a little
bitterness to see it regarded with such scant respect. He looked
out of the windows at the lighted streets and wondered whether any
of those hurrying thousands cared a jot for the men that had
fought and died for them. The air, so sharp and chill after the
tropics, served still further to dispirit him and add the
concluding note of depression to his home-coming. He got off the
car and walked down to Fifth Avenue, holding his breath as he drew
near the Quintans' house. He rang the bell: waited and rang again.
Then at last the door was unlocked and opened by an old woman.
"Is Miss--Mrs. Quintan at home?" he asked.
"Gone to Europe," said the old woman.
"But Miss Latimer?" he persisted.
"Gone to Europe," said the old woman.
"Mr. Howard Quintan?"
"Gone to Europe!"
He walked slowly down the steps, not even waiting to ask for their
address abroad nor when they might be expected to return.
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