She was silent. They moved together as in a trance towards the door. He was remembering what she had said it would mean if she kissed him without his asking. He was hoping. She accompanied him to the head of the stairs. Suddenly his will-power gave way. “I’m not going. You don’t think I’m going after to-night? You’ve shown me so much that---- Desire, I can’t live without you.” She took his face between her hands. “You must go. If you don’t, it’ll be all the same. You’ve told me things, too. I’m hindering your work. After what you’ve told me, I would refuse to see you if you stayed. Perhaps it’s only for a little while. I may marry you some day. Who knows? And I wouldn’t want your mother to hate me.” They clung together in silence. “We’ll write often?” “Yes, often.” “And to-morrow?” “Phone me in the morning.” He thought she had repeated the phrase from habit. “My last day,” he pleaded. “Phone me in the morning,” she reiterated. He had said good-by; she was waving to him across the rail. He was nearly out of sight. He turned and came bounding back. “What is it? I can’t keep brave if you make me go through it twice.” He caught her to him. “Give me your lips,” he panted. She averted her face. His arms fell from her. “I thought not,” he whispered brokenly. He had begun to descend. At the last moment she stooped. Her lips fluttered against his own; they neither kissed nor returned his pressure. She fled from him trembling across the threshold. The door shut with a bang. He waited to see her come stealing out. He was left alone with her memory. On returning to the Brevoort he inquired for her telegram. At first he was told that none had arrived. He insisted. After a search it was discovered tucked away in the wrong pigeon-hole. Paying no heed to the clerk’s apologies, he slit the envelope and read: “Forgive me. I’m sorry. Desire” If only he had received it earlier! If only it had been brought to his bedside in the morning, what a difference it would have made! She would never have known that he had thought of going. She would have heard nothing about her hindering his work. She would have been ignorant of his money embarrassments. He couldn’t unsay anything now. It was as though a force, stronger than himself, had conspired to drive him to this crisis. He saw her in his mind’s eye, slipping out at midnight to send him that message. His tenderness magnified her kindness and clothed her with pathos. The unkindness of the thoughts he had had of her that day rose up like conscience to reproach him. From the first he had misjudged her. He had always misjudged her. He forgot all her omissions, remembering only her periods of graciousness. He didn’t send the cable to his mother. He went upstairs and commenced packing. It was only a precaution, he told himself; he wasn’t really going. To-morrow they would cease to be serious and would laugh about to-night.