Then, looking eastward over the bridge, he said, “We’d a discussion about this before.” “Had we?” I said. I wondered what had become of my pride, so frantically was I hoping that this might lead to another “discussion” now. Anything to keep him for another few minutes.... That gesticulating _trèfle_-scented French beauty would have him for the rest of her life; she might spare him to me for just one more squabble! “Yes: don’t you remember how you informed me you’d send the ring back at the year’s end? I said then——But look here!” he broke off, “isn’t there anywhere near here where we could get some lunch while we settle about this?” Ah! Then I should have my few minutes longer! * * * * * There’s a little creamery in the King’s Road where he and I lunched together again: this time off rolls and butter and boiled eggs. There he began again. “An engaged girl who had been _really_ engaged,” he said, “would insist upon sending back the ring as a matter of course; but why in this case?” And so on. It was just because I was so afraid of seeming to linger, as I longed to do, that I appeared to be in such haste to finish the meal that nearly choked me, and to draw a glove over that ringless finger that felt, suddenly, so bare and unfamiliar—and lonely. “You’ll have coffee, won’t you?” “No, thanks.” Oh, why hadn’t I said, “Yes”? He’d lost that scowl, he seemed so much nearer the old friendly terms again, and it was for the last time! “I will; unless you’re in a hurry, Miss Trant? Just a moment—” Yes! Just a moment! It was all I asked, that, and that my heart should not beat so fast and make me feel so weak and dizzy. —“Here, boy!”—this was to a newspaper-boy who was strolling past the shop behind a large pink poster and a bundle of early evening editions. “D’you mind if I just look up something——” The man opposite to me unfolded the still damp sheet; his eyes on the paper gave mine the chance of one more direct, long, hungry look at his face. Then came surprise on surprise. I saw his face change utterly, turn blank, agitated. An odd-sounding “_Ah!_” broke from his lips. Then he looked up again alert, decisive. He stuffed the paper into his pocket, paused one instant, frowning in thought. Then counter-ordered the coffee. “No time for it,” he said. Then rose to take his hat from the rack beside the little mirror. So soon? Oh, so soon? What had brought this about? Why “no time”? It seemed scarcely a minute since I’d opened the door of our flat to him, and now he was off! In this hurry! Why? But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that, after all, I was a soldier’s daughter: that it was expected of our family that they should show no sign of being under fire, and that I’d got to go through what was coming without a tremor or glance to betray the sick sinking of the heart within me; lightly and steadily, holding myself well in hand. Afterwards I could get back to the flat....