Jerome decided that he would not go to see Lucina Merritt that Sunday night.

He knew that she expected him, though there had been no formal agreement to that effect; he knew that she would wonder at his non-appearance, and, even though she were not disappointed, that she would think him untruthful and unmannerly.
"Let her," he told himself, harshly, fairly scourging himself with his resolution.

"Let her think just as badly of me as she can.

I'll get over it quicker." The ineffable selfishness of martyrdom was upon him.

He considered only his own glory and pain of noble renunciation, and not her agony of disillusion and distrust, even if she did not care for him.