It was about half-past eight. Mrs. Welsh was setting her bread in the kitchen; they could hear her moving about. Hartley was down-town finishing up his business. They were almost alone in the house. Albert's throat grew dry and his limbs trembled. His pause was ominous. The girl's smile died away as he took a seat without looking at her.
"Well, Maud, I suppose you know—we're going away to-morrow."
"Oh, must you? But you'll come back?"
"I don't expect to—I don't see how I can. I may never see you again."
"Oh, don't say that!" cried the girl, her face as white as silver, her clasped hands straining.
"I must go—I must!" he muttered, not daring to look upon her face.
"Oh, what can I do—we do—without you! I can't bear it!"
She stopped, and sank back into a chair, her breath coming heavily from her twitching lips, the unnoticed tears falling from her staring, pitiful, wild, appealing eyes, her hands nervously twisting her gloves.
There was a long silence. Each was undergoing a self-revelation; each was trying to face a future without the other.
"I must go!" he repeated, aimlessly, mechanically. "What can I do here?"