“Good-bye, René. I want you to go now. Yes, I mean it. Please go.” The words, so gently spoken that he knew he had not offended her, were full of the authority of a woman who expects to be obeyed. He hesitated a second, then bent his head again, and Anne felt him kiss the sleeve of her dress. A moment later, she saw his tall figure pass like a darker shadow, through the shadows that hung round the gate in the wall. Long after all the light was gone, she stood where he had left her. She knew why he had gone. Almost as though she had been present, she knew all the wisdom his friend François Fontenelle had that day been pouring into his ears. She pictured François’ cold ironical anger if he knew, or if he came to know, of this second farewell. Bitterest pang of all, she knew that he was right. She stood clasping her hands together. “It’s all too late--too late,” she kept repeating unconsciously, shivering from head to foot. * * * * * Anne’s prescience was not at fault. Late the same night, after the two younger men had gone to their rooms, Fontenelle sat in the parlour of the Falcon Inn, and discussed her with his friend. “You’ve been a fool, my dear fellow,” he remarked in his dryest tone. “I warned you not to go back. Why couldn’t you let well alone?” René sprang restlessly to his feet, and stood with his back to the fire which he had just lighted. “You know well enough. Why do you ask absurd questions,” he returned irritably. “It’s no use talking. I know I’m a fool. But I can’t get her out of my head.” François leant forward to tap his pipe against the brickwork of the fireplace. “You must,” he said shortly. “It’s madness. This isn’t a case for fooling. It’s marriage--and suicide. If it were marriage _or_ suicide you would be a wise man to choose the latter alternative,” he added grimly. René moved impatiently. “I know. I know. You needn’t rub it in. But--she’s adorable. I can’t forget her.” François regarded him patiently. “My dear fellow,” he said after a moment, “you may think you’re in love, but do at least try to keep off arrant nonsense. You know as well as I do that you _will_ forget her. That two months after you get back, she’ll be an occasional sentimental memory, and that a year hence, you will never think of her at all.” René laughed shortly. “You’re a detestable brute!” he exclaimed with the half wistful half amused smile of a spoilt child, which made part of his charm. “And the worst of it is, you’re always right. I don’t want to marry her. I don’t want to marry any one. I’m not the man to marry. I’ve got work to do. You’re quite right. I was a fool to go back.” “And I suppose there was a love scene, and a declaration of sorts?” François’ voice was ironical, but there was anxiety under the light words. “No.” He grew suddenly grave. “She asked me to go--and I went.”