THE AMERICAN
"So you had n't faith," he said resentfully.
"Yes, I had faith—faith that it would take place, and that you 'd be happy. Otherwise I should have been, among my speculations, a very heartless creature. But," she continued, laying her hand on his arm and hazarding a grave smile, "it was the highest flight ever taken by a tolerably rich imagination!"
Shortly after this she recommended him to leave Paris and travel for three months. Change of scene would do him good and he would forget his misfortune sooner in absence from the objects that had witnessed it. "I really feel," he concurred, "as if to leave you, at least, would do me good—and cost me very little effort. You're growing cynical; you shock me and pain me."
"Very well," she said, good-naturedly or cynically, as may appear most credible. "I shall certainly see you again."
He was ready enough to get quite away; the brilliant streets he had walked through in his happier hours and which then seemed to wear a higher brilliancy in honour of his happiness, were now in the secret of his defeat and looked down on it in shining mockery. He would go somewhere, he cared little where; and he made his preparations. Then one morning at haphazard he drove to the train that would transport him to Calais and deposit him there for despatch to the shores of Britain. As he rolled along he asked himself what had become of his revenge, and he was able to think of it as provisionally pigeonholed in a very safe place. It would keep till called for.
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