His decision had not been made. He had given her neither assurance of his return nor had he told her that they were about to part forever.... He did not know, and he could not decide ... there were now only minutes—seconds. He could see the Élysées Palace Hôtel ahead, his destination, where he would say good-by to her.... And again, with a weakness which made him despise himself, he evaded the issue. “You will write to me—often?” he asked. “Yes.... And you?” It was her first question since he had told her he was to go; the first time she had demanded anything of him. “I shall write. I shall tell you everything.... Everything will come right somehow. It must come right.” “I have not your address.” She spoke very calmly. He wrote it on a slip of paper and handed it to her. “But you have not my address—nor my name.” She smiled with that quaint lightening of the face which always stirred him to tenderness. He had not wanted to know her name nor her address. He had loved the mystery of it and of her. But the mystery must end. He gave her his memorandum—book and she wrote, but he did not look at the page, closing the book and placing it in his pocket.... She was still a mystery—he would look when it became necessary to look, and not before. The taxicab was stopping. They looked at each other, but even now she gave no sign of distress, shed no tear. “_Mignonne...._” he whispered, and drew her into his arms. “Good-by.... Good-by.... I love you....” “Good-by,” she said, gravely. “I also love you ... and I shall be always _fidèle_.” He opened the door and alighted; then he turned and lifted her hand to his lips. She did not smile; her face was immobile, her eyes were fixed on his face with a strange expression of detachment, of abstraction. He kissed her hand again and turned abruptly away. But he could not leave her so.... He turned; the taxi was starting. He called and ran toward the curb, but the chauffeur did not hear.... He was too late; the machine gained headway and swept around the corner—and she was gone.... CHAPTER XXVII After a sleepless, uncomfortable night, spent sitting bolt upright in a compartment of the Paris-Brest train, Kendall arrived at the dirty, unkempt, unattractive seaport which was his destination. His baggage was taken from him by the branch of the army which looked after such matters, and he found his way to the provost’s office, where he showed his orders and was told to report daily to see if his name was posted in the list of those to sail. No further information was given him as to the date of his departure nor the vessel upon which he should sail.