Not until his wheels had moved reluctantly away, did she climb the narrow stairs to the room from which she had departed so gaily. Her solitariness had returned. She had had her own man for a handful of hours. They were ended. As she threw off her finery, she could still hear that voice persistently advising, And, while the sun is shining, Make hay, little girl, make hay. In the darkness she flung herself down on the bed, burying her face in the pillow. “I want to; oh, I want to,” she muttered. CHAPTER XI [Illustration: 9137] OR three weeks she followed the song's advice. No one knew how long happiness would last. With her it had never lasted. He would leave her presently; already he was anticipating an early return to America. “I shall feel terribly flat when you've gone,” she told him. “But I'll write. I'll write you the longest letters.” “Ah, but letters aren't the same as being together.” He didn't seem to share her need of him, and it hurt. If he did share it, it was unconsciously. He had yet to awaken to what the need meant. She had allowed him to become too sure of her, perhaps; had she kept him more uncertain, he might have awakened. In any case, it was too late to alter attitudes now and to think up reasons. He liked her in the jolliest kind of way as the most splendid of diversions; but she wasn't essential to him for all time--only for the present. She treasured no illusions about the longest letters. She knew men--the world was filled with women; out of sight would be out of mind. So every evening when he visited her, her heart was in her throat till she had made him confess that he had not yet received his embarkation orders. Some day he would tell her that he was going and would expect her to congratulate him. She would have to smile and pretend that she was glad for his sake. After that he would vanish and the long eventlessness would re-commence. He would write intimately and often at first; little by little new interests would claim him. There would be a blank and then, after a long silence, a printed announcement, curtly stating that he had found his happiness elsewhere.