‘Wait for me, Martin.... I’ll be ready in a quarter of an hour.’ She had not said good-bye to Mabel. She had been dreading that last duty.... No time now, thank heaven, for anything prolonged.... Simplest to write a little note and tell someone to stick it in her door. She wrote: ‘Dear Mabel, ‘I have been called for unexpectedly in a car. I have only ten minutes to finish packing and do all the last things. I knocked on your door a little while ago but got no answer.’ She hesitated. Was it too gross? It was; but it must stand now; it could not be crossed out. ‘And now I’m afraid I haven’t a minute to try and find you. I’m _dreadfully_ sorry not to see you to say good-bye, Mabel. Won’t it be sad when next October comes to think we shan’t all be meeting again? You must write and tell me what happens to you, and I will write to you. I dare say we shall see each other again. You must let me know if you ever come my way----’ That must stand too.... What else?... Results would be out to-morrow--Better not to refer to them; for Mabel had certainly failed. She had not been able to remember anything in the end. The last three days she had given in one of two sheets of paper blank save for a few uncertain lines. She finished: ‘I do hope you are going to get a good long rest. You do need it. You worked so marvellously. Nobody ever could have worked harder. We’ve all been so sorry for you feeling so ill during tripos week. It was terribly hard luck. ‘Good-bye and love from ‘Judith.’ Nothing could be added--There was nothing more to be said. Mabel’s face this last week came before her, blank, haggard, still watching her from moribund eyes, and she dismissed it. She had thought she would have to kiss Mabel good-bye: and now she would not have to. She must be quick now, for Martin. The car turned out of the drive and took the dusty road. Almost she forgot to look back to see the last of those red walls. ‘I’m saying good-bye to it, Martin. Ugh! I hate it. I love it.’ The poplars seemed to grow all in a moment and hide it. It was gone. ‘Well, Martin, how are you? What’s been happening to everybody? How are they all?’ She was slipping back, she was slipping back. They left Cambridge behind them, and she tried to recall it, to make it come before her eyes, and could not. The dream of wake, the dream of sleep--which had it been? She wondered if she would ever remember it again. Yesterday Martin had been standing with her under the cherry tree.