"Was it so difficult then," she asked, "to tell me everything?"
She had come forward into the room, and stood beside his desk, one hand resting upon it, her face looking down at the letter which he had not yet begun to write. He still made no attempt to rise, for now her face was in full golden light, and he could see its every feature.
"It is so difficult," he said, "not to write drivel when one is saying good-bye."
"You are going away?" she asked.
"Yes."
"To-night?"
"In half an hour."
"You are going abroad?"
"Certainly."
"Why?"