The small pathetic saint stood all unconscious, its machine-made face looking down amiably upon the branch of lilies in its hands.
"I want them early," said May, "because I prefer to pack myself, Louise. You are such a kind creature, but I really prefer waiting upon myself."
"I shall pack for Madame," repeated Louise.
May went to the toilet table and put down the book that she was carrying.
"Good night, Louise," was all she said.
Louise moved. She groaned, then she took hold of the door and began to withdraw herself behind it.
"I wish Madame a good repose. I shall pack for Madame, comme il faut," she said with superb obstinacy, and she closed the door after her.
Good repose! Repose seemed to May the last word that was suitable. Fall asleep she might, for she was strong and full of vigour, but repose——!
She read the poem once again through when she was in bed. Then she laid the book under the pillow and turned out the light.
How many hours had she still in Oxford? About seventeen hours. And even when she was back again at her work—sundered for ever from the place that she had learned to love better than any other place in the world—she would have something precious to remember. Even if they never met again after those seventeen hours were over, even though they never saw each other's faces again, she would have something to remember: words of his spoken only to her, words that betrayed the fineness of his nature. Those words of his belonged to her.