Gerald hoped he had covered all options and had resisted the temptation to pay mademoiselle a visit. The shouts drew nearer, and lights were seen flashing ruddily against the sides and gables of the neighbouring houses. “I’ve gotta go. Mrs. Too busy. It must be my fault that you have not learnt that your husband is the man to come to—at such a time as this. She went on her way now no longer dreaming and appreciative, but disturbed and unwillingly observant behind her mask of serene contentment. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him.
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