In operas and romances one goes from such a parting in a splendid dignity of gloom. But I am no hero, and I went down the big staircase of Tarvrille's house the empty shuck of an abandoned desire. I was acutely ashamed of my recent tears. In the centre of the hall was a marble figure swathed about with yellow muslin. "On account of the flies," I said, breaking our silence.  
My words were far too unexpected for Tarvrille to understand. "The flies," I repeated with an air of explanation.
 
"You're sure she'll be all right?" I said .
 
"You've done the best thing you can for her."
 
"I suppose I have. I have to go." And then I saw ahead of me a world full of the need of decisions and arrangements and empty of all interest. "Where the devil am I to go, Tarvrille? I can't even get out of things altogether...."
 
And then with a fresh of painful difficulties ahead: "I have to tell this to my father. I've got to explain—— And he thought—he expected——"
 
Tarvrille opened the half of the heavy front door[Pg 198] for me, hesitated, and came down the broad steps into the grey street and a few yards along the pavement with me. He wa............