“I hope you don’t. It’s the things you don’t want to remember that you never can get out of your head.” “Good-by,” he said again. “Haven’t you one nice thing to say to me before you go?” “Not one.” “Wouldn’t you at least admit that I had enlarged your point of view?” “Aren’t you going to shake hands with me?” he said. She shook her head, and began to approach him. He felt afterward as if he had known exactly what she meant to do, and yet he seemed to lack all power to prevent her--or perhaps it was will that was lacking. She came up to him, very deliberately put her arms about his neck, and, almost as tall as he, laid her head on his shoulder; and then murmured under his chin: “But you must never, never come back.” He stood like a rock under her caress; he did not make any answer; he did not attempt to undo the clasp of her arms. He was as impassive as a hunted animal who, in some terrible danger, pretends to be already dead. It was a matter of only a few seconds. Then she dropped her arms, and he went away. CHAPTER V Running away is seldom a becoming gesture, yet it is one that should at least bring relief; but as Riatt went westward, he was conscious of no relief whatsoever. The day was bitter and gray, and, looking out of the window, he felt that he was about as flat and dreary as the country through which he was passing. He sat a little while with the Lanes in their compartment. “I suppose you’ll be glad to get home and see George and Louise and the children,” said Mrs. Lane, referring to some cousins of Riatt’s about whom, it is to be feared, he had not thought for weeks. Dorothy laughed. “What does he care for home-staying cousins when he is leaving a lovely creature languishing for him in New York?” she said. “I doubt if Christine does much languishing,” he returned, though the idea was not at all disagreeable to him. “You two are the strangest lovers I ever knew,” said Miss Lane. Riatt wondered if that were an accurate description of them--lovers, though strange ones. He left his old friends presently and went and sat in the observation-car. What, he wondered, had Christine meant by her last words, about never coming back? Never come back to annoy with his critical attitude? Never come back to watch her deterioration as Hickson’s wife? Or never come back to disturb her peace of mind and heart by his mere presence? He debated all interpretations but the last pleased him most. A bride and groom were in the car. The girl was not in the least like Christine. She was small and wore a pair of the most fantastic gray and black boots that Riatt had ever seen; but she was very blond and very much in love. Riatt hated both her and her husband. “People ought not to be allowed to show their feelings like that,” he said to himself, as he kicked open the door leading to the back platform, with a violence that was utterly unnecessary.