"Good-bye, dear Hilary. We shall meet again—somewhere."
"I know it—thank my God I know it."
She went close to him and looked into his haggard face. Then she kissed him.
"I'll wave my handkercher as the train passes."
"And I'll wave mine, Sarah Jane."
Presently, when the train steamed along between Hilary Woodrow and the sea, though Prout waved from the window and Woodrow stood behind him and strained to catch his last glimpse of her, they only marked her hand held out, and the dance of her handkerchief fluttering. She saw nothing, for the blue of her April eyes was dimmed and drowned.
CHAPTER XI
THE DOLLS
"Jar," said Mrs. Weekes, "you be getting on home to fifty years old, and since I first slapped your breech, when you'd been in the world a matter of six months, you and me have never had no grave difference of opinion."
"What then?" asked the man.