"Teddy, Teddy," she cries, "do not go yet," and falls to weeping as though her heart would break. "It is the bitterness of death," she says, "and it is death. I know we shall never meet again."
"Do not speak like that," he entreats, in deep agitation. "I know—I believe—we shall indeed meet again, and under happier circumstances."
"Ah, you can find comfort!" Reproachfully. "You are not half sorry to part from me."
"Oh, Molly, be reasonable."
"If you can find any consolation at this moment, you are not. And—if you meet any one—anywhere—and—like her better than me—you will kill me: remember that."
"Now, where," argues he, in perfect sincerity, "could I meet any one to be compared with you?"
"But how shall I know it—not hearing from you for so many months?" She says this as though he, not she, had forbidden the correspondence.
"Then why not take something from those wretched six months?" he says, craftily.
"I don't know. Yes,"—doubtfully,—"it is too long a time. In four months, then, I shall write,—yes, in four months. Now I do not feel quite so bad. Sixteen weeks will not be so long going by."
"One would be shorter still."