He brought her to the room on the right, where Cherry-blossom had just lit the lamp, and sat down beside her on the matting.
He took a cigarette from his pocket, and approached the tobacco-mono with it. Then, without lighting it, he flung the cigarette away.
“Campanula, I am going on a journey. I did not tell you last night, for I had not made up my mind.”
“I have heard it,” she replied. She sat there beside him, a small figure with head bowed and hands folded in her lap; and the sadness and sorrowful sweetness of those four words pierced his heart.
To get this terrible interview over, to tear himself away at once, he would have sold years of his life. But it had to be gone through with.
Whether she loved him as a woman loves a man, or a child loves a father, she loved him, loved him as no person had ever loved him before—and he knew it.
Then he talked to her, telling her that he would come back.
“I have been away before, Campanula, and I have returned. Will you not believe me that I will return?”
“Ah yes,” she answered, “but you did not go with her.”
He said nothing for a moment. There was a sound outside; it was the coolie he had ordered to take his portmanteau to the hotel. He heard Pine-breeze accosting him, he heard him go upstairs and come down again, walking heavily. It was like the sound of a man carrying out a coffin.