"No," she responded. "Not that—not that."
She swayed, and he caught her in his arms. For an instant he held her—not in passion, but with a gentleness that was almost cold. Then he released her, and she moved away.
"Good-bye."
"Good-bye."
He followed her into the hall and opened the door. An icy draught blew past him.
"Wait a moment," he said. He took an umbrella from the rack, and, raising it, held it over her until she entered the carriage.
"I hope you will not take cold," he said, as he closed the door.
Then he went back into his study and walked the floor until dawn.
CHAPTER XII
One afternoon during the third week in January, Father Algarcife went to the studio of Claude Nevins, and found the artist smoking a moody pipe over a brandy-and-soda. His brush and palette lay upon the floor.