"Oh, Sylvia, why did you not come with me on that first day?" he cried. "Tell me your bad news, dear," she replied, gently. "I cannot help it," he began in broken tones. "Sylvia, you will see that there is no escape, that I must go. An appointment was offered to me--by the War Office. It was offered to me, pressed on me, the day after I last came here, the day after we were together in the library. I did not know what to do. I did not accept it. But it seemed to me that each time I came to see you we became more and more estranged. I was given two days to make up my mind, and within the two days, my dear, your letter came, telling me you did not wish to see me any more." "Oh, Hilary!" she whispered. "I accepted the appointment at once. There were reasons why I welcomed it. It would take me abroad!" "Abroad!" she cried. "Yes, I welcomed that. To be near you and not to see you--to be near you and know that others were talking with you, any one, every one except me--to be near you and know that you were unhappy and in trouble, and that I could not even tell you how deeply I was sorry--I dreaded that, Sylvia. And yet I dreaded one thing more. Here, in England, at each turn of the street, I should think to come upon you suddenly. To pass you as a stranger, or almost as a stranger. No! I could not do it!" "Oh, Hilary!" she whispered, and lifting his hand she laid it against her cheek. "So for a week I was glad. But this morning I received your second letter, Sylvia. It came too late, my dear. There was no time to obtain a substitute." Sylvia turned to him with a startled face. "When do you go?" "Very soon." "When?" The words had to be spoken. "To-morrow morning. I catch the first train from Weymouth to Southampton. We sail from Southampton at noon." Habit came again to her assistance. She turned away from him so that he might not see her face, and he went on: "Had there been more time, I could have made arrangements. Some one else could have gone. As it is--" He broke off suddenly, and bending toward her cried: "Sylvia, say that I must go." But she could not bring herself to that. She was minded to hold with both hands the good thing which had come to her this night. She shook her head. He sought to turn her face to his, but she looked stubbornly away. "And when will you return?" she asked. "In a few months, Sylvia." "When?" "In June." And she counted off the months upon her fingers. "So after to-night," she said, in a low voice, "I shall not see you any more for all these months. The winter must pass, and the spring, too. Oh, Hilary!" and she turned to him with a quivering face and whispered piteously: "Don't go, my dear. Don't go!" "Say that I must go!" he insisted, and she laughed with scorn. Then the laughter ceased and she said: "There will be danger?" "None," he cried. "Yes--from sickness, and--" her voice broke in a sob--"I shall not be near."