"What are you doing, up so early?"
"Et vous?" she retorted, with her brief vivid smile.
"I ... I ... have come to say good-bye," he said.
"Good-bye? Why, I thought you were not going away until the day after tomorrow."
"Right-o," said George. "No more I am. But you know what a time I take over things; the mater always calls me a slow-coach. I—I like beginning to pack up and say good-bye days and weeks before it is time to go." Again he watched the little half-moon smile that turned up the corners of her mouth and dimpled her rounded cheek.
"Well then—good-bye," she said, looking up at him for an instant and realizing that she would be sorry when he had left.
"Good-bye." He took her book from her and held out his hand. She placed her own soft small hand in his, and he found not another word to say. So he said "Good-bye" again, and she repeated it softly.
"But now you must go away," she said. "You cannot keep on saying good-bye and staying here."
"Of course not," said George. "I'll go in a minute." Then he cleared his throat. "I wonder if you will be here when I come back. I suppose you would hate to live in England altogether, wouldn't you?"
"I don't know. I have never thought of it," said Chérie.