For a while he sat there, legs crossed, drumming thoughtfully on his boot with his riding-crop; and after a while he dragged the chair forward and picked up a pen.

“Why not?” he said aloud; “it will save railroad fare—­and she’ll need it all.”

So, to his lawyer in New York he wrote: 

“I won’t come to town after all.  You have my letter and you know what I want done.  Nobody is likely to dispute the matter, and it won’t require a will to make my wife carry out the essence of the thing.”

And signed his name.

When he had sealed and directed the letter he could find no stamp; so he left it on the table.

“That’s the usual way they find such letters,” he said, smiling to himself as the thought struck him.  “It certainly is hard to be original....  But then I’m not ambitious.”

He found another sheet of paper and wrote to Hamil: 

   “All the same you are wrong; I have always been your friend.  My
   father comes first, as always; you second.  There is no third.”

This note, signed, sealed, and addressed, he left with the other.

“Certainly I am not original in the least,” he said, beginning another note.

   “DOLLY DEAR: 

“You have made good. Continuez, chere enfant—­and if you don’t know what that means your French lessons are in vain.  Now the usual few words:  don’t let any man who is not married to you lay the weight of his little finger on you!  Don’t ignore convention unless there is a good reason—­and then don’t!  When you’re tired of behaving yourself go to sleep; and if you can’t sleep, sleep some more; and then some.  Men are exactly like women until they differ from them; there is no real mystery about either outside of popular novels.

   “I am very, very glad that I have known you, Dolly.  Don’t tint
   yourself, except for the footlights.  There are other things, but
   I can’t think of them; and so,

“LOUIS MALCOURT”

This letter he sealed and laid with the others; it was the last.  There was nothing more to do, except to open the table drawer and drop something into the side pocket of his coat.

Malcourt had no favourite spots in the woods and fields around him; one trail resembled another; he cared as much for one patch of woods, one wild meadow, one tumbling brook as he did for the next—­which was not very much.

But there was one place where the sun-bronzed moss was deep and level; where, on the edge of a leafy ravine, the last rays of the sinking sun always lingered after all else lay in shadow.

Here he sat down, thoughtfully; and for a little while remained in his listening attitude.  Then, smiling, he lay back, pillowing his head on his left arm; and drew something from the side pocket of his coat.

The world had grown silent; across the ravine a deer among the trees watched him, motionless.