On the last day of his stay he came before luncheon, and went to the valley of the Sarka alone with "Miss Brown"—he never called Nancy anything else, and she loved the name. It was a clear midsummer day. The country was alight with poppies, like a vulgar summer hat. The heart of Miss Brown was sad.
"I leave this evening," he said, "at 8.40."
"You have told me that twenty times," said Miss Brown.
"I like you to think of it," he said; and she did not answer. "I am going back to the mines, back to Peru—"
"You have said that two hundred times," said Miss Brown pettishly.
He paid no attention. "To Peru," he continued, "and I may have to stay there a year, or two years ... to look after the mine. Then I return." He coughed. "Or—I do not return."
No answer.
"You have not changed your mind about going to Italy and writing your book?"
"No," said Nancy, with little streaks of white on each side of her nostrils.