"If you knew how awful it is to think of leaving you. Words don't convey the horrible feeling, the craving for you, when you are out of my sight."
"Perhaps you don't trust me," she said, with a little supercilious smile. "Perhaps you think I shall not keep faith if you leave me?"
"Melicent!" He insisted upon taking her hand, unbuttoning and removing her glove, kissing the palm and holding it to his cheek. "I shan't say another word. I'm the happiest man on earth. I shall look on my exile as the proof of my manhood."
"I am more likely to value you correctly if you go away," said Melicent, withdrawing her hand when she had borne his caress as long as she could. "I shall grow used to the idea of you. I can't adjust my horizons at present, with you in the foreground. It used to be so empty."
"And you will spend all to-morrow with me, won't you? We will lunch, shop, dine together, go to the theatre—we will have one day of happiness, and then part."
One day of happiness! The girl looked wistfully at him.
"Lance, will it truly make you very happy to spend the day with me?"
"I wonder you can ask," he said. He added a string of lovers' folly—tender names and protestations.
"Well, then, we'll try it!" she cried recklessly. "I want a day of happiness too. You shall take me where you like, and I shall try and be happy. I think I am too cold and selfish. I'll try and let myself go to-morrow, and enjoy things, and be sweet to you. You shall have a memory to carry to Russia with you—the memory of a day as happy as I can make it."
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