"Until we meet again," she murmurs, under her breath.
"Until we meet again," he repeats, with a lingering look, and a deep, low bow.
She makes a pained, impatient gesture. He turns and goes out, humming with a cruel lightness that breaks her heart, the sad refrain of an old song:
"It may be for years, and it may be forever."
[CHAPTER XII.]
"FATE HAS DONE ITS WORST."
"I touch this flower of silken leaf my earlier days that knew,
Its soft leaves wound me with a grief whose balsam never grew."
—Emerson.
Four o'clock striking in Mrs. Conway's parlor, and our three friends variously disposed therein; Mrs. Conway trifling with some light affair of fancy work, in bright-colored Berlin wool; Bruce with the daily paper; Lulu, a trifle restless, and sitting before the piano, striking low, wandering chords and symphonies, turning now and then an impatient glance at the newspaper that diverts the gentleman's attention from her. Women are invariably jealous of newspapers.