Jonquil came into the room again, her sorrow and her nervousness alike tucked under powder and rouge and hat.
"I've ordered a taxicab," she said impersonally. "We can drive around until your train leaves."
She walked out on the front porch. George put on his coat and hat and stood for a minute exhausted in the hall—he had eaten scarcely a bite since he had left New York. Mrs. Cary came over, drew his head down and kissed him on the cheek, and he felt very ridiculous and weak in his knowledge that the scene had been ridiculous and weak at the end. If he had only gone the night before—left her for the last time with a decent pride.
The taxi had come, and for an hour these two that had been lovers rode along the less-frequented streets. He held her hand and grew calmer in the sunshine, seeing too late that there had been nothing all along to do or say.
"I'll come back," he told her.
"I know you will," she answered, trying to put a cheery faith into her voice. "And we'll write each other—sometimes."
"No," he said, "we won't write. I couldn't stand that. Some day I'll come back."
"I'll never forget you, George."
They reached the station, and she went with him while he bought his ticket....
"Why, George O'Kelly and Jonquil Cary!"