"Different!..." he returned, musingly. "Yes, you are right. He is a flame that warms everything that comes in contact with him. But I fancy he can wither, too."
"Yes, he can.... That's the reason why...."
He looked at her squarely.
"Claire ... do you mind if I call you 'Claire'?... I am afraid we are playing with fire."
It was past six o'clock when Claire left the restaurant. The warm spell of June was over, and a high ocean fog was drifting in on the breath of the west wind. People hurried by muffled in overcoats and furs, their straw hats incongruously accenting the almost wintry gloom. But Claire was in no mood to take account of wind and weather.
This last intimate meeting with Stillman was full of irony. For the first time they had met and talked of what was close to their hearts with perfect frankness, and it was to be the last time! He had even spoken about his dead wife, in a perfectly natural, simple way, as if Claire had known her all her life.
They had said farewell while the waiter was busying himself clearing away their empty glasses. It seemed better so. But as Stillman took her hand he said:
"Try not to forget me, Claire—completely."
"I shall never forget," she answered.