“Phone me in the morning.”
He thought she had repeated the phrase from habit. “My last day,” he pleaded.
“Phone me in the morning,” she reiterated.
He had said good-by; she was waving to him across the rail. He was nearly out of sight. He turned and came bounding back.
“What is it? I can’t keep brave if you make me go through it twice.”
He caught her to him. “Give me your lips,” he panted.
She averted her face.
His arms fell from her. “I thought not,” he whispered brokenly.
He had begun to descend. At the last moment she stooped. Her lips fluttered against his own; they neither kissed nor returned his pressure. She fled from him trembling across the threshold. The door shut with a bang. He waited to see her come stealing out. He was left alone with her memory.
On returning to the Brevoort he inquired for her telegram. At first he was told that none had arrived. He insisted. After a search it was discovered tucked away in the wrong pigeon-hole. Paying no heed to the clerk’s apologies, he slit the envelope and read: