Serge spent the night packing and dismantling his studio. He destroyed a great many of his pictures, called up the porter and made him a present of his furniture and the clothes that were left after he had packed two bags.
In the morning he went to fetch Annie Lipsett. He found her just leaving, but made her go back with him to see the boy. Him he hugged and kissed, and then he gave Annie a cheque for fifty pounds for his education.
“And for God’s sake,” he said, “don’t make him a gentleman. Put him to a trade. If he’s any real good he’ll get out of it. If he’s only middling good he’ll stay there and marry and die respectable. If he’s bad—God help you; but he won’t be that.”
Annie said:
“You’re going.”
“Yes. I’m going.”
She was very plucky and fought back her tears. Serge took her shoulders in his hands and said:
“You and I have had a queer sort of love, an impersonal sort of meeting in Heaven here on earth. I never understood before what it must feel like to be a seraph—just a head and wings. We’ve been so busy fighting our way up out of a slimy pit that we haven’t had time to think much about each other—only the boy.”
Annie’s tears flowed freely and she clung to his hand and said: