He accompanied her into the hall, and as they shook hands she murmured a little diffidently:
“Perhaps we shall meet again some time?”
He drew back sharply.
“No, we shan’t meet again.” There was something purposeful, almost vehemently so, in the curtly spoken words. “If I had thought that——”
“Yes?” she prompted. “If you had?”
“If I’d thought that,” he said quietly, “I shouldn’t have dared to risk this last half-hour.”
A momentary silence fell between them. Then, with a shrug, he added lightly:
“But we shan’t meet again. I’m leaving England next week. That settles it.”
Without giving her time to make any rejoinder he opened the street-door and stood aside for her to pass out. A minute later she was in the taxi, and he was standing bare-headed on the pavement beside it.
“Good-bye,” she said. “Good-bye—Saint Michel.”