" He
took his hat from the table and gravely held out his hand.
She was frightened for a moment with his impassive abstraction. In
the old days she had known it--had believed it was his dogged
"obstinacy"--but she knew the hopelessness of opposing it. Yet with
feminine persistency she again threw herself against it, as against a
wall.
"You don't believe me! Well, go and see for yourself. They are at Robles
NOW. If you catch the early morning stage at Santa Clara you will come
upon them before they disperse. Dare you try it?"
"Whatever I do," he returned smilingly, "I shall always be grateful to
you for giving me this opportunity of seeing you again AS YOU WERE. Make
my excuses to your husband. Good-night."
"Clarence!"
But he had already closed the door behind him. His face did not relax
its expression nor change as he looked again at the tray with its broken
viands before the door, the worn, stained hall carpet, or the waiter who
shuffled past him. He was apparently as critically conscious of them and
of the close odors of the hall, and the atmosphere of listless decay and
faded extravagance around him, as before the interview. But if the woman
he had just parted from had watched him she would have supposed he still
utterly disbelieved her story.
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