He had seen her for the last time. He kept saying it. It seemed unreal--an impossible thing--though the harrowing of it was so actual. His mind wouldn't seize it, even while the weight of it was grinding his youth. For the last time! Outside, he bit hard upon his nether lip, to check its silly quivering. A myriad stars glittered over Rouen now; a breeze was blowing across the river. There was a roll of wheels approaching. Foolish as he knew the hope to be, he waited strained till they rolled past. At the piano Miss Digby-Smith was playing Ascher's "Alice." His mother joined him, and sat there with him--and scarcely spoke. She took his hand. He thought she didn't guess. "It's late, Con," she said at last. "Hadn't you better go to bed?" "I'm not tired," said the boy. "You'll come to my room as soon as you're dressed in the morning?" "You won't be able to go to sleep again." "I want you to. Your father's going to the station with you, do you know?" "Yes, he told me ... What time"--the indifference of his tone!--"what time do you think Miss McGuire and--er--Mrs. Adaile will be back?" "Not for hours yet," she said; "I daresay it will be three or four o'clock." She looked away from him. He thought she didn't guess! Presently the lights were turned out. People said "good-night," and bade him "good-bye." But for very shame he would have sat alone in the salon till it was time for him to start--sat there just to see the woman pass through the hall. In his bed he listened--he lay in the darkness listening, holding his breath. He wanted to hear her come home; to hear her would be something. The wind was rising, and alternately it tricked and terrorised him; he trembled lest a gust should drown the faint stir of her return. It was a long, long while that he had listened. Sleep pressed upon his eyelids, but he would not yield. Once it was mastering him, and he twitched to wide wakefulness in the guilty fear that he had missed her. The blustering wind, and the clock of St. Ouen made the only sounds. He saw the door opening with the dim notion that he was being called too soon. For a mere vague moment, which seemed dishonour to him in the next, he beheld without realising her. He raised himself slowly on his elbows, and it thrilled through him that she was moving to his side. "I've come to say 'good-bye' to you, Con." "Mrs. Adaile!" The name was all that he could whisper. "Oh, Mrs. Adaile!" "I've been horrid to you. Haven't I?" "No, no," he said strenuously, "it was I; I want to beg your pardon. Forgive me! Oh, you do forgive me, don't you? It's been awful." Her hands were swift and live; he held them fast. The ghostliness of daybreak was in the room. In the pallor she sat at the edge of the bed, the ball gown wan, and the faded lilies drooping at her breast. Being so young, he was shy that his hair was on end and the collar of his nightshirt crumpled. "I'm sorry," she said; "I've been sorry all the night."