The end of April found New York still cold and bleak. The buds on the trees were bursting and the birds were returning from the south because it seemed the proper season for these changes to take place, not because the buds and birds had received any encouragement from the elements. The sun refused to show his face for whole days and frosty winds blew chill rains up and down the streets. The result was that New Yorkers, who usually at this time of year began to suffer nostalgia for Europe or Maine, withdrew into their houses and huddled before active fireplaces, while they considered the advisability of another trip to Palm Beach or Havana.
To Campaspe, who seldom travelled in any direction, the weather was not a matter of any great moment. Her harassed state of mind was due to another cause. It seemed incredible to her that a man could destroy her habitual tranquillity, even temporarily, by leaping from a window, and yet it was patent that he had done so. There was, it would seem, sufficient diversion in the human scene to occupy her attention this spring, more, apparently, than usual, but every effort she made to direct
