Sylvia and two contemporaries, encountered upon the way, linked arms and could be heard singing fragmentarily as they went. Kenneth, excited by the unwonted lateness of the hour, ran with the Hardinges' dog, and alternately teased and chattered to Janet, always left odd-man-out, and now relegated to the society of her father, who told her instructive things about the moon. Lily and Colin lingered far behind them all.
They were not articulate, even now, in spite of the soft allurement of the melancholy that possessed them both.
In Lily's mind, there floated a fragment once read somewhere:
... De cet adieu, si douce est la tristesse.
She said tremulously:
"I'm sorry you're both going away to-morrow."
She had not wanted to say both, but the word mysteriously forced itself from her.
"I'm sorry, too," Colin answered fervently. "I shall never forget this time. It's been the happiest of my whole life."
"I think it's been the happiest of mine, too."
Shyness overwhelmed and silenced them both.