He took her hand and, almost with emotion, almost with a gleam of moisture in his eyes, said, softly:
“I thank you for saying so. Those words are like you, the words of a sensible, cultivated woman, who doesn’t rave and rant, as a silly Dutchman would at not finding in this country exactly what corresponded with his petty ideals. Your temperament suffered much here, I know. It was bound to. But it was not the fault of the country.”
“It was my own fault, resident,” she repeated, with her soft, smiling voice.
He thought her adorable. That she did not burst into imprecations, that she did not fly into ecstasies because she was leaving Java in a few days’ time gave him a sense of comfort. And, when she rose to go, saying that it was getting late, he felt very sad:
“And so I shall never see you again?”
“I don’t think that we shall be coming back.”
“It’s good-bye for ever, then!”
“Perhaps we shall see you in Europe.”
He made a gesture of denial:
“I am more grateful to you than I can say for coming to look the old man up. I shall drive with you to Garut.”