“Frankie: I can’t get into the army in any branch. I got one of the doctors to tell me, and he said I had tuberculosis and couldn’t last more than a year or two at the most. Frankie, I can’t do it. What’s the use, anyway, of waiting on like that, and dying in a charity hospital? I’m going to go now, as decently as I can. Don’t tell them, not even where I am. I want to be left in peace. But I wish you would come after it is all over. I will leave you a note. Good-bye. God bless you, dear old girl. L.” She hurried to him. She found him in a little basement-room like a cell, below the level of the street, with a barred window looking out on a filthy courtyard. She had steeled herself for this meeting; she was prepared for anything; she didn’t wince, didn’t falter, at the sight of his ghastly face. He stood before her in the dim light, a gaunt, stooping figure in a frayed suit; he looked really frightened at the sight of her. He had said good-bye to her forever in his own soul; he wasn’t prepared, wasn’t _capable_ of seeing her again. He tried to tell her something of his story; especially he insisted upon how he hadn’t “wronged” Mr. Petersen. He was very earnest about that. “I don’t want you to think me worse than I am,” he said. “My dear, I wouldn’t,” she assured him, gently. He stared at her with his great hollow eyes. “Frankie!” he cried, “You do understand, don’t you? That it was--I don’t know--a mistake of some sort. I can say it now. I always--loved you. Always. Never anyone else.” She had a chill dread of what she felt he was about to ask her. “If you could say--even a word----?” She got up and went to him as he sat hunched up on a trunk; she stroked his hair very gently. She wanted terribly to give him some little comfort, but she couldn’t feed him with lies, even though he were starving. “It’s all over and done with now, Lionel,” she said. “It’s better to try and forget it.” “But, Frankie.... If I could only know.... If you’d changed.... If you still care for me?” “It’s no use talking of that, my dear.” “Only tell me, before I die!” he entreated. She looked up at him sorrowfully. And suddenly he clasped her in his arms, such a pitiful, desperate embrace! She clung to him, sobbing, strained him to her. “Oh, I did, I did love you!” her heart cried. “When it was you. But not this ghost--this distortion of what was you!” But she didn’t say it, didn’t say anything, she was too full of an aching and dreadful pity. Nothing on earth could save him; she saw death in his face; she knew that she was saying good-bye to him forever. He knew it, too. Ineffable moment! There were no words for it; they clung to each other, hopelessly, in an abandon of grief. II