Between them was a gulf--caused by what Fairchild could only guess--a gulf which he could not essay to cross, and which she, for some reason, would not.

But there was nothing that could stop him from watching her, with hungry eyes which followed her until she had disappeared in the doorway of the post-office, eyes which believed they detected a listlessness in her walk and a slight droop to the usually erect little shoulders, eyes which were sure of one thing: that the smile was gone from the lips, that upon her features were the lines and hollows of sleeplessness, and the unmistakable lack of luster and color which told him that she was not happy.

Even the masculine mentality of Fairchild could discern that.

But it could not answer the question which the decision brought.
She had become engaged to a man whom she had given evidence of hating.
She had refused to recognize Fairchild, whom she had appeared to like.
She had cast her lot with the Rodaines--and she was unhappy.

Beyond that, everything was blank to Fairchild.
An hour later Harry, wandering by the younger man's side, strove for words and at last uttered them.
"I know it's disagreeable," came finally.