He looked away from her--looked at the engraving of Wellington and Blucher meeting on the field of Waterloo; stared at the filter on the sideboard, through which the water fell drop by drop. A heavy weight seemed to have come down upon him, so that he breathed under it laboriously. He wanted to curtail the pause, which he understood must be trying to her; but he could not think of anything to say, nor could he shake his brain clear of her last words, which appeared to him incessantly reiterated. He felt as if his hope of her had been something vital and she had stamped it out, to leave him confronted by a new beginning--a beginning so strange that time must elapse before he could realise how wholly strange it was going to be. Even while he strove to address her it was difficult to feel that she was still very close to him. Her tones lingered; her dress emphasised itself upon his consciousness more and more; but from her presence he had a curious sense of being remote. "Good-night," he said abruptly. "You mustn't let this trouble you, you know. I shall always be glad I'm fond of you; I shall always be glad I told you so--I was hoping, and now I understand. It's so much better to understand than to go on hoping for what can never come." She searched pityingly for something kind; but the futility of phrases daunted her. "I had better close the door after you," she murmured, "or it will make a noise." They went out into the passage, and stood together on the step. "It's beginning to snow," he said; "it looks as if we were going to have a heavy fall." "Yes," she said dully, glancing at the sky. She put out her hand, and it lay for an instant in his. "Well, good-night, again." "Good-night, Dr. Kincaid." As he turned, she was silhouetted against the gaslight of the hall. Then her figure was with-drawn, and the view of the interior narrowed--until, while he looked back, the brightness vanished altogether and the door was shut. CHAPTER IX And so it was all over. "All over," he said to himself--"over and done with, Philip. Steady on, Philip; take it fighting!" But they were only words--as yet he could not "take it fighting." Nor was the knowledge that he was never to hold her quite all the grief that lay upon him as he made his way along the ill-lit streets. There was, besides, a very cruel smart--the abstract pain of being such a little to one who was so much to him. He visited the patients who were still awake, and dressed such wounds as needed to be dressed. He heard the little peevish questions and the dull complaints just as he had done the night before. The nurse walked softly past the sleepers with her shaded lamp, and once or twice he spoke to her. And when, the doctor's duties done, the man had gained his room, he thought of his hopes the night before, and sat with elbows on the table while the hours struck, remembering what had happened since.