From the first moment he had acknowledged his defeat. His mother’s death, his family’s supreme appeal to him, the infamous sentence that had been dealt him, did not permit him to discuss it with her. It only remained for him to set right the details of his departure, to lessen as much as possible the sorrow it would bring to her. He could not consent to live with her any longer, and though he was separated from her only by this frail decision, he suffered and almost cried out in pain.... She was waiting for him on the steps of the hotel. The moment she saw him she came running to meet him. “At last,” she murmured, her words coming like a soft moan, but not with any scolding. He tried to smile. “Good-day, Edith.” Tenderly and attentively she scanned her lover’s face, and noticed the traces of tears there. “I’m always afraid now,” she said, “when you are away.” “Afraid of what?” “Afraid that you may not come back.” “My dear----” “Oh, I know,” she said gravely. “One day you’ll not come back. Tell me that day hasn’t come yet.” “Hush, Edith. I shall always love you.” “Always? No matter what happens?” “No matter what happens.” She took his hand, and with an adoring gesture raised it to her lips, then asked timidly: “You had news from France this morning. They told me.” “Yes.” “Good news?” He had the courage to nod his head. He kept his sorrow for himself alone; they were already separated. “I never expect any news, myself. You are my whole heart and life.” And as she went ahead of him along the terrace, where their little table had been set for them out of the wind, he asked himself: “Shall I have the strength to go away?” IV THE RETURN EDITH sat up on the edge of the bed and propped her chin in her hand while she watched Maurice finish his dressing. He had set the lamp on the floor, with a shade that threw the light downward, so that it should not bother her. “Why do you get up so early?” she asked him in a sleepy voice, her eyes half opened. “I can’t sleep any more. It’s almost morning.” He blew out the lamp. A meagre light began presently to filter through the blinds. “It’s night, Maurice.” “Don’t you see a little daylight?” “That isn’t day. There’s a moon.” “Rest a little while yet, Edith. You’ve time enough.” “Yes. I’m so tired, so deliciously tired.” She let herself fall back on the pillow, and closed her eyelids. Even in sleep there was still an air of passion about her. He came up to the bed and bent over her in the fitful light that came in through the window, looking long at her face. “This little flame of love that lighted up my life,” he thought, “is put out for me now. I shall no longer see it burning, I can’t see the blood flowing through her cheeks, nor the gleam of her teeth through her parted lips, hardly the curve of her mouth, the line of her nose, the dark mass of her hair with all its perfume. And her body is lost to me----”