He looked at her with white, set face.
“Yes,” he said, “I shall come. That is very certain. But, after all, it will be different. I think that I have become a drug drinker. I need you every day. In the mornings I find labour easy because I am going to see you. In the afternoon my brain and fingers leap to their work because you have been with me. Anna, you shall not go. I cannot let you go.”
She threw away the end of her cigarette. Without turning or looking in his direction she leaned forwards, her head supported upon her fingers, her elbows upon her knees. She gazed steadily out of the window at that arc of glittering lights. He made a quick movement towards her, but she did not flinch. His arm fell to his side. The effort of self-repression cost him a sob.
“David,” she said, “you are not a coward, are you?”
“I do not know,” he muttered. “The bravest of us have joints in our armour.”
“You are not a coward,” she repeated, “or you would not be my friend. A woman may choose any one for her lover, but for her friend she makes no mistake. You are not a coward David, and you must not talk like one. Put out your hand and bid me God-speed. It is the only way.”
“I cannot do it!” he cried hoarsely. “I cannot part with you. You have grown into my life. Anna——”
Again she stopped him, but this time it was not so easy. The man’s passion became almost unbearable at the thought of losing her. And yet, as she rose slowly to her feet and stood looking at him with outstretched hands, a strange mixture of expressions shining in her wonderful eyes, he realized in some measure the strength of her determination, felt the utter impotence of anything which he could say to her. He forgot for the moment his own self-pity, the egotism of his own passionate love. He took her hands firmly in his and raised them to his lips.
“You shall go,” he declared. “I will make of the days and weeks one long morning, but remember the afternoon must come. Always remember that.”