"And I had so much to say to him. I cannot understand that I can never say it now.... Athalie dear, my mother wishes me to take her abroad. I made arrangements yesterday at the Cunard office. We sail Saturday. Could I see you for a moment before I go?
"Clive."
To which she replied:
"I shall be here every evening."
He came Friday night looking very sallow and thin in his black clothes. Catharine, who was sewing by the centre table, rose to shake hands with him in sympathetic silence, then went away to her bedroom, where, once or twice she caught herself whistling some gay refrain of the moment, and was obliged to check herself.
He had taken Athalie's slender hands and was standing by the sofa, looking intently at her.
"That night," he said with an effort, "you sent me home—saying that I was needed."
"Yes, Clive."
"How did you know?"
"I knew."