"Then I must bid you good-by," she said.
"Good-by?" I repeated. "How can you bid me good-by? Confound this grating! Isn't that door open?"
"No," she replied, "it's locked. Do you want to shake hands with me?"
"Of course I do!" I cried. "Good-by like this! It cannot be."
"I think," she said quickly, "that if you could get out of your window, you might come to mine and shake hands."
What a scintillating inspiration! What a girl! I had not thought of it! In a moment I had bounded out of my window, and was standing under hers, which was not four feet from the ground. There she was, with her beautiful white hand already extended. I seized it in both of mine.
"Oh, Sylvia," I said, "I cannot have you go in this way. I want to tell you—I want to tell you how"—
"You are very good," she interrupted, endeavoring slightly to withdraw her hand, "and when the story of Tomaso and Lucilla is finished and printed I am going to read it, rules or no rules."
"It shall never be finished," I exclaimed vehemently, "if you do not write it," and, lifting her hand, I really believe I was about to kiss it, when with a quick movement she drew it from me.
"She is coming," she said; "good-by! good-by!" and with a wave of her hand she was gone from the window.