"
"And why can't you go the rest of the way?"
"Work. I must be back in town in three days. You must not forget that
I have had my vacation; there is plenty to be done."
"Now that you are comparatively wealthy, why not give up the grind, as
you call it?"
"The truth is, I must work. When a man works he forgets."
"Then you have something to forget?"
"Every man who has reached the age of thirty has something to forget,"
said I.
I was gloomy. In my pocket I had the only letter I had ever received
from Gretchen. Every hour fate outdoes the romancer. The story she
had written for me was a puzzling one. And the finis? Who could say?
Fate is more capricious than the novelist; sometimes you can guess what
he intends for an end; what fate has in store, never. Gretchen's
letter did not begin as letters usually do. It began with "I love you"
and ended with the same sentence. "In November my marriage will take
place. Do not come abroad. I am growing strong now; if I should see
you alas, what would become of that thin ice covering the heart of
fire; we have nothing to return, you and I.
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