There were two old ladies standing near by; "Brother and sister," we overheard one of them say.
"That's it, isn't it?" I said.
He did not reply.
There was one more moment before I had to go on to the boat. I noticed with a new interest—reviewing with staring inquisition every detail of his face—how good and clever and refined and aristocratic he was; how more than all he seemed sad and hankering and lonely. I could not help apprehending after what had happened—but then, no, that was too absurd. It was but a natural thing to have asked at a parting.
"Au revoir," he said in a last handshake, "but not Adieu."
It was dusk as we sailed out of Southampton Water. England was a fading piece of purple sky, lying low upon the sea; sprinkled with stars, for the harbour lights were showing. As she faded away I knew that she too belonged to the past.
I went to sleep in my bunk, and awoke in the bright sunshine of France and the future.