She went. Until the final minutes he could not feel that she would go, could not believe it until he saw her in the triumphant cruelty of her ball gown with the lilies at her dazzling breast—saw her giddily with the long gloves and the fan in her hands.
The room was full of animation, of movement. The boy sat mute, his gaze fastened on her face. The fiacre grated to the curb. Miss McGuire asked her if she was ready. "Yes, I'm ready." Colonel Van Buren put the cape about her shoulders. She turned carelessly, her hand outstretched: "Well, I'll say 'good-bye,' Con; you've all my good wishes." "Good-bye, Mrs. Adaile," he faltered. His eyes implored her, but her touch was fleeting. The fiacre rattled—she had gone.
And upon the hotel fell a profound and deathly silence. He heard nothing. Damp he was, and blind.
He had seen her for the last time. He kept saying it. It seemed unreal—an impossible thing—though the harrowing of it was so actual. His mind wouldn't seize it, even while the weight of it was grinding his youth.
For the last time! Outside, he bit hard upon his nether lip, to check its silly quivering. A myriad stars glittered over Rouen now; a breeze was blowing across the river. There was a roll of wheels approaching. Foolish as he knew the hope to be, he waited strained till they rolled past. At the piano Miss Digby-Smith was playing Ascher's "Alice." His mother joined him, and sat there with him—and scarcely spoke. She took his hand. He thought she didn't guess.
"It's late, Con," she said at last. "Hadn't you better go to bed?"
"I'm not tired," said the boy.
"You'll come to my room as soon as you're dressed in the morning?"
"You won't be able to go to sleep again."
"I want you to. Your father's going to the station with you, do you know?"