"I don't believe they need me," she answered, evasively. "They seem pretty busy. But if you're hungry--or thirsty, I can get something for you there." They passed the gate, walking slowly along. He knew that he ought to urge her to stop, and that he must hurry on to catch his train; but it was too sweet to be near her; this was the last time and it was his own! "I seem to remember your tea drinking ways," she said. "You use only sugar and the hot water." "But that was in the winter," he responded. He wished she had not referred to that afternoon, when he had been weak, just as he was proving weak now. A yacht was steaming slowly into the bay. It was a pretty, white plaything and they paused and commended its good qualities with the easy certainty of superficial knowledge. They walked on, passing the lighthouse, and slowly nearing the entrance to Red Gables. She led the talk easily and her light-heartedness added to his depression; every step he took was an error; but he would leave her at the gate when they came to it and go on to the village and his train. She paused abruptly and looked across a meadow which lay between them and the Red Gables orchard. "I really believe it's a cow; yes, it is a cow," she declared, with quiet conviction. "I thought it was a yacht. Was I as dull as that?" he demanded. "Be it far from me to say; but I was getting a little breathless. Even the professional monologuists in the vaudeville have to rest." He was not in a humor for frivolous conversation; but she had never been so gay. He had committed himself to general chaos and yet she was smiling amid the ruin of the world. "I don't believe there are any letter boxes along here," she continued, looking straight ahead. He remembered his letter; he was stupidly carrying it in his hand; his fingers were cramped from their clutch upon it. It was not easy to resist her mood, and he now laughed in spite of himself. "I'm disappointed. I thought they had all the necessities of a successful summer resort here,--even mails." "Rather poor, don't you think? I suppose you were carrying the letter to get an opening for that." They paused and John held open the little gate in the stone wall. He was grave again, and something of his seriousness communicated itself to her. Clearly, he thought, this was the parting of the ways. He had not relaxed his hold upon the letter; it was a straw at which he clutched for support. "Won't you come in? There are plenty of trains and we'd like you to dine with us." A great wave of loneliness and yearning swept over him. Her invitation seemed to create new and limitless distances that stretched between them. In fumbling with the latch of the gate he had dropped his letter. The wind caught and carried it out into the grass.