"Nothing further counts," jerks forth the voice, which resumes after a moment:
"Twenty-eight."
The young woman started, and in a hard, sharp tone said:
"Come away."
He rose, and without looking at her, followed her; and one felt that some dreadful thing had sprung up between them.
Some one remarked:
"Good-bye to love. They don't look as if they were of one mind to-day."
A hand taps me on the shoulder. I turn round. It is my friend.
I have only now to ask pardon for having thus trespassed on my reader by talking so much of myself. I had written this journal of day-dreams entirely for myself, or rather, I had taken advantage of my floating solitude, to capture the wandering ideas which are wont to traverse our minds, like birds on the wing.