"You must go now, Bernard."
John looked at her for a moment in surprise.
"Oh, yes," he said, "I see—of course."
Then Elaine crossed the hearthrug and laid her slender hands on the lapels of his coat.
"To-night, Bernard," she said, "I have almost felt as if you were your old self again."
"Thanks," answered John, awkwardly; his position at that moment was awkward and utterly false; he was like a man who walks blindly on the edge of a precipice. He wondered if she was about to kiss him, or if she expected him to salute her in that way. This doubt was still upon him when Elaine reached up and touched his cheeks lightly with her lips. There was no passion, no love—nothing but a sort of sisterly affection in the embrace, but John was glad when it was over. If she had been a less beautiful woman the situation would have been so very much easier.
Elaine accompanied him along the passage, handing him his hat and stick as they went. In the darkness at the door, as they shook hands, John felt that the impression of her fingers was warmer and infinitely more cordial that the greeting she had given him upon his arrival. He could see her face only dimly. She had seemed surprised that he had departed so easily; he felt that he must say something, utter some remark that possibly might have been uttered by Bernard Treves.
"I am sorry to have to go," he said.
Then Elaine's voice came to him quietly in the darkness. There was a new note in her words.
"You must come again—soon, Bernard."