Gillian found herself nervously unready. All the little opening speeches she had prepared for the interview deserted her suddenly, driven away by her shocked realisation of the transformation which the few days since she had last seen him had wrought in the man beside her.
His face was lined and worn. The grey eyes were sunken and burned with a strange, bitter brilliance. Only the dogged, out-thrust jaw remained the same as ever—obstinate and unconquerable. Twice she essayed to speak and twice failed. The third time the words came stumblingly.
“Michael, what—what does it mean—all this?” She indicated the holland-sheeted studio with a gesture.
“It means that I’m going away,” he replied. “I’m packing now. I leave England to-morrow.”
“You mustn’t go!”
The words broke from her imperatively, like a mandate.
He glanced at her quickly and into his eyes came a look of comprehension.
“You’re a good friend,” he said quietly. “But I must go.”
“No, no, you mustn’t! Listen—”
“Nothing can alter my decision,” he interrupted in a tone of absolute finality. “Nothing you could say, Gillian—so don’t say it.”