Campaspe lived on East Nineteenth Street, just around the corner from Paul's apartment in Gramercy Park. In the cool, June night air, John Armstrong walked home with her. Directly they were alone her manner changed almost imperceptibly; not that she seemed more dignified—Campaspe, even in her most apparently careless moments, always had dignity—; rather, she appeared to be preoccupied. As they strolled down Irving Place John made an effort to arouse her from her presumed lassitude. He started to speak and, indeed, did form sentences, but her replies were abstract and distant, if not entirely formal. Once or twice his hand edged nervously towards her arm, and even touched it, but she gave no sign that she was aware of this contact: she made no effort to move away, nor did she respond to it. Her mood was exacerbating, and it roused in John a kind of dumb anger and childlike helplessness. In a few brief moments, however, they stood before her door. After the fashion of the houses on this street, a short flight of steps descended to the entrance. He followed her, without a plan, largely without hope,
