"Yes," said May; "it is yours."
He took up the cup and went round with it to his place, as if he was carrying something rare and significant.
They sat opposite each other, these two, alone together, and for the last time—possibly. They talked stiffly in measured sentences to each other, talk that merely served as a defence. And behind this talk both were painfully aware that the precious moments were slipping away, and yet nothing could be done to stay them. It was only when the meal was over, and there was nothing left for them to do but to rise and go, that they stopped talking and looked at each other apprehensively.
"You are not going till the afternoon?" he questioned.
"Not till the afternoon," she answered, but she did not say whether she was going early or late. She rose from the table and stood by it.
"The reason why I ask," he said, rising too, "is that I cannot be at home for lunch, and afterwards there is hospital business with which I am concerned."
May had as yet only vaguely decided on her train, though she knew the trains by heart. She had now to fix it definitely, it was wrung from her.
"I may not be able to get back in time to go with you to the station, but I hope to be in time to meet you there, to see you off," he said; and he added: "I hope to be in time," as if he doubted it nevertheless.
"You mustn't make a point of seeing me off," said May. "And don't you think railway-stations are places which one avoids as much as possible?" She asked the question a little tremulously and smiled, but did not look at him.
"Ours is pretty bad," he said, without a smile. "But I hope it won't have the effect of making you forget that there is any beauty in our old city. I hope you will carry away with you some regret at parting—some memory of us."