The air became heavy with the perfume of laburnums. It occurred to me that the laburnum was the flower with which she was best compared. It burned, and blazed, and fell unwithered. In crossing Magdalene Bridge we caught the sighing of willows along the banks of the Cherwell. I had often thought how restful was the sound. To-night I marveled at myself; it seemed poignant with anguish, like a fretful heart stirring. Under the bridge as we crossed, a punt slipped ghostlike down stream; the subdued laughter of a girl and the muffled pleading of a man’s voice reached us. Then memory assailed me. “They are even as you and I, Fiesole,” my heart whispered, “even as you and I once were.”
I fell to wondering, as I caught the moon shining through the lace-work parapet of Magdalene tower, how many such love-affairs of lightness it had seen commenced.
At the door of the house in which she lodged we halted abruptly.
“So this is the end,” she said. Then, feigning cheerfulness, she ran up the steps, crying, “Good luck to you on your journey.”
From the pavement I called to her, “I’m afraid, I’ve kept you out late, I——”
The door banged.
I had had much to say to her. Now that she was gone the thoughts and words bayed in my brain like bloodhounds. There were apologies, excuses, explanations—kind, meaningless phrases, which would have held a meaning of comfort for her. It was too late now. For a moment her shadow fell across the blind; then her arm was raised and the light went out.