"Come along--it's getting damp. We'll go back to my rooms--I'd like to fix this up to-night as I'm off to Scotland early to-morrow." He held out his hand with a boyish laugh. "Like old times, eh, Fantine?" and helped her up on to her feet, his own eyes suspiciously bright. With trembling fingers she lowered her veil and shook out the folds of her shabby dress as McTaggart still rattled on, giving her time to recover. "I want you to travel to Viareggio as soon as you can. It's a long journey--d'you mind that?" "No"--she laughed shakily--"one goes through France?" Her voice was wistful. "Yes--I'll write to-night to Cook's--get you a berth. Would you like to stay for a night in Paris on your way? that would be wiser----" he guessed her thought. "I'm awfully glad you like the idea--it's really luck my meeting you. I've got a place in Siena, you know, and a flat in Rome, so I daresay I shall look in sometimes--break my journey to see that you're behaving yourself." They walked along the narrow strip of grass that fringed the row of chairs. But when they came out on to the path Fantine glanced to the right and paused, looking up at the huge statue, its shield aloft against the sky. "Well--are you making a fresh conquest?" "Yes--and no!" she laughed softly. "I say good-bye to my friend, Achille--it's just a politeness of mine, Pierrot." For a moment she stood there, eyes raised. McTaggart, pitiful, guessed her thought. He saw that the post, invented for her, was not for long as he watched her face. And something of the old glamour, the memory of the days that were, brought a sharp pain to his heart. He tried in vain to conceal his fear. But Fantine knew. She nodded her head. "In case," she murmured, "I don't return." Then, gaily, to the statue. "Au revoir, cher Monsieur!" CHAPTER XXVIII A month had flown by on the swift wings of Summer. Already a crispness in the air heralded in Dame Autumn; with her rainbow-hued cloak trailing golds and reds, glittering with the diamonds strewn by the first hoar frost, as she passed. At Worthing the beach marked the change of seasons. The bathing tents were folded up, the deck chairs had departed. Loving couples no longer lay stretched out on the warm pebbles, their faces hidden by handkerchiefs or the folds of a comic paper, in the fond belief--like the proverbial ostrich--that the rest of them (hands locked together or arms clinging around waists) was invisible to the critical public. The motor char-a-bancs ceased running, all save one that still plied on that straight white road that leads to Brighton, over the long bridge guarded by lions and past the little settlements of clustering bungalows.