He stood aside, outfaced by such determination, and Jenny, with downcast eyes intent upon the buttoning of her glove, passed him carelessly. "Jenny!" he called desperately over the banisters. "Jenny! Don't go like that. Darling, don't; I can't bear it." Then he ran to catch her by the arm. "Kiss me good-bye and be friends. Do, Jenny. Jenny. Do! Please! I can't bear to see your practice dress lying there on the floor." Sentiment had its way this time, and Jenny began to cry. "Oh, Maurice," she wept, "why are you so unkind to me? I hate myself for spoiling you so, but I must. I don't care about anything excepting you. I do love you, Maurice." In the dusty passage they were friends again. "And now my eyes is all red," she lamented. "Never mind, darling girl. Come back while I get some things together, and see me off at Waterloo, will you?" She assented, as enlaced they went up again to the studio. "It's all the fault of that rotten statue," he explained. "I was furious with myself and vented it on you. Never mind. I'll begin again when I come back. Look, we'll put the tarlatan away in the drawer I take my things out of. Shall we?" Soon they were driving in a hansom cab towards the railway station. "We always seem to wind up our quarrels in cabs," Maurice observed. "I don't know why we quarrel. I hate quarreling." "We won't any more." As the horse strained up through the echoing cavern of Waterloo, they kissed each other good-bye, a long, long kiss. There were still ten minutes before the train left, and among the sweep of hurrying passengers and noise of shouting porters to an accompaniment of whistling, rumbling trains, Maurice tried to voice the immortality of his love. "Great Scott, I've only a minute," he said suddenly. "Look, meet me on Monday week, the twenty-third, here, at three-thirty. Three-thirty from Claybridge. Don't forget." "Take your seats, please," a ticket inspector shouted in their ears. Maurice jumped into his compartment and wrote quickly on an envelope: "3.30. Waterloo. Ap. 23. Claybridge." "Good-bye, darling, darling girl. I'll bring you back some castanets and a Spanish frock." "Good-bye. See you soon." "Very, very soon. Think of me." "Rather." The train went curling out of the station. "I shall be early in the theater to-night," Jenny thought. Chapter XXIII: _Two Letters_ HOTEL DE PARIS, SEVILLA, SPAIN. April 17. My dear and lovely one, I've not had time to write before. I meant to send you a letter from the train, but I left all my notepaper and pencils in the station restaurant at a place called Miranda, and went to sleep instead.