22
T
he
winter deepened and with it Tregan’s discontent. Sometimes he saw Joan—passing on crowded streets or at the symphony concerts. At the office they were more than casual. Her eyes were steady and she held her head bravely.
He resigned his job and went to another paper. The sheet was a tabloid. The hours were longer and the work drabber.
In the evenings the round of parties went on. He found in physical fatigue that he thought less about Alice.
Once he heard vaguely that she was abroad. Then one day, he read of her marriage—in Paris, to a musical comedy star. He felt life slipping from under his feet.
One evening a girl smiled at him as he walked home. He raised his hat.
“Your mother’s still abroad, isn’t she?” she said.
“Yes. I had a letter from Nice.”
They walked along in
