“You are going away?” said Gertrude, looking at him.
“Some day—when the leaves begin to fall. You know I can’t stay forever.”
Gertrude transferred her eyes to the outer prospect, and then, after a pause, she said, “I shall never see you again.”
“Why not?” asked Felix. “We shall probably both survive my departure.”
But Gertrude only repeated, “I shall never see you again. I shall never hear of you,” she went on. “I shall know nothing about you. I knew nothing about you before, and it will be the same again.”
“I knew nothing about you then, unfortunately,” said Felix. “But now I shall write to you.”
“Don’t write to me. I shall not answer you,” Gertrude declared.
“I should of course burn your letters,” said Felix.
Gertrude looked at him again. “Burn my letters? You sometimes say strange things.”
“They are not strange in themselves,” the young man answered. “They are only strange as said to you. You will come to Europe.”