"Well, I don't know--quite. You see, I am rather indefinite as yet. I thought of going for the winter somewhere in the Southern States. I am decided merely this much, you know--I am going somewhere. But I don't know where. 'Way off, anyhow." "We shall be very sorry to lose you," she remarked. "We----" "And I thought," he continued, "that I would come and say 'adios' now for fear that I might leave very suddenly. I do that sometimes. I'm afraid you will forget me very soon, but I want to tell you that----" "Why," said the girl in some surprise, "you speak as if you were going away for all time. You surely do not mean to utterly desert New York?" "I think you misunderstand me," he said. "I give this important air to my farewell to you because to me it is a very important event. Perhaps you recollect that once I told you that I cared for you. Well, I still care for you, and so I can only go away somewhere--some place 'way off--where--where---- See?" "New York is a very large place," she observed. "Yes, New York is a very large---- How good of you to remind me! But then you don't understand. You can't understand. I know I can find no place where I will cease to remember you, but then I can find some place where I can cease to remember in a way that I am myself. I shall never try to forget you. Those two violets, you know--one I found near the tennis court and the other you gave me, you remember--I shall take them with me." "Here," said the girl, tugging at her gown for a moment--"Here! Here's a third one." She thrust a violet toward him. "If you were not so serenely insolent," said Hawker, "I would think that you felt sorry for me. I don't wish you to feel sorry for me. And I don't wish to be melodramatic. I know it is all commonplace enough, and I didn't mean to act like a tenor. Please don't pity me." "I don't," she replied. She gave the violet a little fling. Hawker lifted his head suddenly and glowered at her. "No, you don't," he at last said slowly, "you don't. Moreover, there is no reason why you should take the trouble. But----" He paused when the girl leaned and peered over the arm of her chair precisely in the manner of a child at the brink of a fountain. "There's my violet on the floor," she said. "You treated it quite contemptuously, didn't you?" "Yes." Together they stared at the violet. Finally he stooped and took it in his fingers. "I feel as if this third one was pelted at me, but I shall keep it. You are rather a cruel person, but, Heaven guard us! that only fastens a man's love the more upon a woman." She laughed. "That is not a very good thing to tell a woman." "No," he said gravely, "it is not, but then I fancy that somebody may have told you previously." She stared at him, and then said, "I think you are revenged for my serene insolence."