‘I shall have to go directly afterwards, though,’ said he, ‘for poor Rupert will be cooling his heels at my house, wondering what has become of one who never fails to keep an appointment.’
‘On which day do you think of setting off?’ asked Sara, as they sat down to the table.
‘To-morrow,’ he replied.
‘To-morrow! There is something remorseless about to-morrow.’
The meal was not a long one. Sara was somewhat flushed and excited. She hardly knew what had prompted her to insist so strongly upon Rudolf’s remaining, but she was glad she had done it.
He sat grave and composed as ever. Having made up his mind to the wrench of parting from her, he felt it rather increased his difficulty than otherwise when she displayed this sudden momentary gleam of– what was it?–a latent tenderness, or an amiability called forth by the fact that she was on the point of being rid of him for some months to come, and felt that the least she could do was graciously to ‘speed the parting guest.’
Very soon after lunch was over he said, very decidedly this time, that he must go.
‘Must you, really? And–from what place will you first write to me?’
‘Suppose we say from Trieste?’
‘From Trieste–very well. I shall expect a letter from there.’