Mrs. Conry looked at him out of her gray eyes, as if she were thinking many things that a woman might think but could not say, before she replied slowly:—
"My husband's coming back to-morrow—to get me." As Vickers said nothing, she continued, slowly shaking the yellow wine in her glass until it circled,—"And it's no use—I'm not good enough for Moller—and you know it. I must have more training, more experience."
Vickers did know it, but had not let himself believe it.
"My little struggle does not matter,—I'm only a woman—and must do as most women do…. Perhaps, who knows! the combination may change some day, and—" she glanced fearlessly at him—"we shall all do as we want in another world!"
Then she looked at her watch. It was very late, and the tired waiters stood leaning listlessly against their tables.
"I am tired," she said at last. "Will you call a cab, please?"
They drove silently down the empty boulevard. A mist came through the cab window, touching her hair with fine points. Her hand lay close to his.
"How happy we were in Rome! Rome!" she looked out into the dark night, and there were tears in her eyes. "You have been very good to me, dear friend. Sometime I shall sing to you again, to you alone. Now good-by." …
His hand held hers, while his heart beat and words rose clamorously to his lips,—the words of rebellion, of protest and love, the words of youth. But he said nothing,—it was better that they should part without a spoken word,—better for her and better for him. His feeling for her, compact of tenderness, pity, and belief, had never been tested by any clear light. She was not his; and beyond that fact he had never looked.
So the carriage rolled on while the two sat silent with beating hearts, and as it approached the hotel he quickly bent his head and kissed the hand that was in his.