I fancy that this is a little more than playing at Bohemianism. She bought her Greyhound ticket one steamy afternoon when school let out at eleven thirty A. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. It was not only that her father had said all sorts of inconsistent and unreasonable things, but that by some incomprehensible infection she herself had replied in the same vein. The moon had arisen, and everything could be as plainly distinguished as during the day. I knew it. He made a movement toward her, and then recalled the circumstances of their last conversation in that study. Analysis would come later, when the primitive conscience, satisfied, would cease to dominate his thought and action. The completest capitulation would not wipe out that trouble.
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