“But to-morrow you and I will go to Russia. I feel to-night as if after all I might do something—who knows—life is not over at twenty-five. Something has made a new man of me to-night, and I have an idea that this new man will make a little music. Mon Dieu! broken music, perhaps, but one cannot have everything complete! At the bottom of all beauty I find that there is grief.”
And Cartier sighed and smiled and said nothing.
After all there was nothing to be said. Margot was right; she had made a difference; but the difference was for Jean.
THE END.
Printed at The Chapel River Press, Kingston, Surrey.
Transcriber’s Notes
Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations in hyphenation and accents have been standardised but all other spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.