Even in her despair Rose reflected that they were parting in anger.
"Vesper, Vesper,—most darling of men," she cried, wildly, detaining him, "shake hands, at least."
"I will not," he muttered, then he gently put her from him, and flung himself from the room.
"One does not forget those things," said Agapit, gloomily, and he followed her out-of-doors.
Vesper, staggering so that he could hardly mount his wheel, was just about to leave the yard. Rose clung to the doorpost, and watched him; then she ran to the gate.
Down, down the Bay he went; farther, farther, always from her. First the two shining wheels disappeared, then his straight blue back, then the curly head with the little cap. She had lost him,—perhaps forever; and this time she fainted in earnest, and Agapit carried her to the kitchen, where the English doctor, who had been the one to attend Vesper, stood, with a shrewd and pitying look on his weather-beaten face.