She lay beside him a long time in the delicious silence of love before she spoke and said: “Good-bye, Hugh.”
He thought she must have gone mad. He stared at her, through the darkness. “Good-bye?” he echoed.
“Yes,” she said, and that was all she said.
He had put out the light in the bowl of yellow amber. He lay in the darkness, understanding nothing. Then his mind grew darker than the room, and he just managed to say:
“But, Lamoir, are you mad? Good-bye! What do you mean?”
She did not answer for what seemed a long time. She was a soft darkness in the dark room, beside him. The night was a blue curtain over the windows, hung with stars like toys. He touched her, as though to prove to himself that he was not dreaming. He must be dreaming. But she was there, beside him, soft, warm: Lamoir, his wife. And the stars on the windows were as though at his finger-tips, but Lamoir was untouchable. She was untouchable, suddenly. She was most untouchable when he touched her. It seemed wrong to touch her. That made him angry. He laughed.
“I’m damned,” he said, “if I understand what all this is about! I come home after months away, and you say good-bye!”
“I don’t think,” she said, “that I can explain. Not now....”
He laughed. She was going away, and she didn’t trouble to explain why!
He wanted her to say: “Don’t be bitter, please!” But she was silent. She was beside him, yet her breath came from across the universe. And what on earth was it all about?