There was silence between them for awhile after that, silence only broken by the twitter of birds wakening to the call of spring. The word "good-bye" remained unspoken: neither of them dared to say it lest it broke the barrier of their resolve. "Will you not go now, Maurice?" said Crystal at last in pitiable pleading, "we only make each other hopelessly wretched, by lingering near one another after this." "Yes, I will go, Crystal," he replied, and this time he really forced his voice to tones of gentleness, although his inward resentment still bubbled out with every word he spoke, "I wish I could have left this house altogether--now--at once--but your father would resent it--and he has been so kind . . . I wish I could go to-day," he reiterated obstinately, "I dread seeing Victor de Marmont in this house, where the laws of chivalry forbid my striking him in the face." "Maurice!" she exclaimed reproachfully. "Nay! I'll not say it again: I have sufficient reason left in me, I think, to show these parvenus how we, of the old regime, bear every blow which fate chooses to deal to us. They have taken everything from us, these new men--our lives, our lands, our very means of subsistence--now they have taken to filching our sweethearts--curse them! but at least let us keep our dignity!" But again she was silent. What was there to say that had not been said?--save that unspoken word "good-bye." And he asked very softly: "May I kiss you for the last time, Crystal?" "No, Maurice," she replied, "never again." "You are still free," he urged. "You are not plighted to de Marmont yet." "No--not actually--not till to-night. . . ." "Then . . . mayn't I?" "No, Maurice," she said decisively. "Your hand then?" "If you like." He knelt down close to her; she yielded her hand to him and he with his usual impulsiveness covered it with kisses into which he tried to infuse the fervour of a last farewell. Then without another word he rose to his feet and walked away with a long and firm stride down the avenue. Crystal watched his retreating figure until the overhanging branches of the ilex hid him from her view. She made no attempt now to restrain her tears, they flowed uninterruptedly down her cheeks and dropped hot and searing upon her hands. With Maurice's figure disappearing down the dark avenue, with the echo of his footsteps dying away in the distance, the last chapter of her first book of romance seemed to be closing with relentless finality. The afternoon sun was hidden behind a bank of grey clouds, the northeast wind came whistling insistently through the trees:--even that feeling of spring in the air had vanished. It was just a bleak grey winter's day now. Crystal felt herself shivering with cold. She drew her shawl more closely round her shoulders, then with eyes still wet with tears, but small head held well erect, she rose to her feet and walked rapidly back to the house. III