But he knew that nothing was wasted—not one word, one silence that had been between them, not one hour of sorrow; nothing could have been spared.
He knew Evelyn was suffering, too. He wanted to tonsole her.
He dreaded the lessening of his anguish because it drew him from her. But he never tried to hold it as the high tide withdrew. He could not have suffered so, and lived. He felt life coming back to him; other pleasures pierced through to him, other pains that were not from Evelyn. He accepted them. Suffering had given him the courage to accept whatever happiness and comfort life brought.
He was walking home one afternoon when he heard some one call behind him:
"Hello, Joe Green! Going to a funeral?"
"Why, hello, Opal!"
"I thought maybe you wouldn't remember me. It's fierce the way people round here are troubled with loss of memory."
"I haven't seen you for ever so long."
"I've been in New York. Gee, it's hot!"
"Come on into McCardle's and have a soda."
"Isn't he the brave boy, tossing away his reputation just like that!"
He had forgotten how blue her eyes were, how ridiculously long her eyelashes, stuck with lumps of mascara. And for a moment he wanted achingly to pull her off her stool, to put his arms tight about her slen-
