"To-morrow morning. I catch the first train from Weymouth to Southampton.
We sail from Southampton at noon."
Habit came again to her assistance. She turned away from him so that he might not see her face, and he went on:
"Had there been more time, I could have made arrangements. Some one else could have gone. As it is—" He broke off suddenly, and bending toward her cried: "Sylvia, say that I must go."
But she could not bring herself to that. She was minded to hold with both hands the good thing which had come to her this night. She shook her head. He sought to turn her face to his, but she looked stubbornly away.
"And when will you return?" she asked.
"In a few months, Sylvia."
"When?"
"In June." And she counted off the months upon her fingers.
"So after to-night," she said, in a low voice, "I shall not see you any more for all these months. The winter must pass, and the spring, too. Oh, Hilary!" and she turned to him with a quivering face and whispered piteously: "Don't go, my dear. Don't go!"
"Say that I must go!" he insisted, and she laughed with scorn. Then the laughter ceased and she said: