The dusk was closing in, but he saw that the address was in Constance Maitland's handwriting. Of course she had written to tell him of her engagement—it was kind of her so to break his calamity to him.
The letter lay unopened for half an hour. Then, with a desperate courage, Thorndyke tore open the envelope. It was an invitation to dinner two weeks hence. It was unfeeling of her to do this. It was ignoble to forget that dear, lost past of which she had often spoken to him, and had allowed him freely to speak to her. It was impossible that he should accept; it was impossible that he should voluntarily meet Constance again, except for one last interview—that final leave-taking which is like the last farewell to the dying. And the sooner it was over the better. Thorndyke pulled himself together, and made up his mind to go to Constance at once.
As he walked along the streets in the sharp air of the January twilight, everything looked unfamiliar to him. His interior world was destroyed—engulfed. Never more could he know hope or happiness; for him was only that stolid endurance
