“You will write to me—often?” he asked.
“Yes.... And you?” It was her first question since he had told her he was to go; the first time she had demanded anything of him.
“I shall write. I shall tell you everything.... Everything will come right somehow. It must come right.”
“I have not your address.” She spoke very calmly.
He wrote it on a slip of paper and handed it to her.
“But you have not my address—nor my name.” She smiled with that quaint lightening of the face which always stirred him to tenderness.
He had not wanted to know her name nor her address. He had loved the mystery of it and of her. But the mystery must end. He gave her his memorandum—book and she wrote, but he did not look at the page, closing the book and placing it in his pocket.... She was still a mystery—he would look when it became necessary to look, and not before.
The taxicab was stopping. They looked at each other, but even now she gave no sign of distress, shed no tear.
“Mignonne....” he whispered, and drew her into his arms. “Good-by.... Good-by.... I love you....”
“Good-by,” she said, gravely. “I also love you ... and I shall be always fidèle.”