"I always keep my promises," said Louise coldly, rather offended by his thanks.
"Yes, yes, I know that; but O, if I could but make you understand! She will make you understand, some day, all I could never explain. A word more, and I leave you. When you tell her that I was here, and the story I have told you of my business and my hopes--she will believe it, though it is quite natural and right that you should hesitate to do so--tell her this, that I entreated you to write to me and let me know that she had returned to Paris. You will do this too, will you not? You see it is only a part of what you have already promised: it is not a new thing. I cannot know that she has returned, unless she permits you to tell me, and so only can harm her. You see I take your own view, with her own consent."
"I see that," said Louise; "it follows from the first. Yes, if she gives me leave, I will write to you."
He contented himself with a more moderate expression of gratitude than was natural to him under the circumstances; and then, having written his address in full, and very distinctly, on the card Louise had consented to keep, he took his leave.
He had been defeated in the greater purpose, but he had achieved a less one, whose gain would have seemed to the friends priceless good fortune a little while ago, but which was robbed of its fail proportions by the larger hope unfulfilled.
Yeldham communicated to Robert the result of his expedition by letter the same evening, and the following day he returned to London.
"I am thankful, Charley, for the light I have been granted. It is dawn after dark, and now I will wait and hope for the day," said Robert; and Yeldham rejoiced to see his fortitude.
So October passed, and November; and December came, and it was only twilight still.