“When?”
“At daylight.”
Gethryn rose and went toward the door; he hesitated, came back and kissed her once on the forehead. When the door closed on him she wept as if her heart would break, hiding her head in her arms. He found her lying so when he returned, and, throwing down her traveling bag and rugs, he knelt and took her to his breast, kissing her again and again on the forehead. At last he had to speak.
“I have packed the things you will need most and will send the rest. It is getting light, dearest; you have to change your dress, you know.”
She roused herself and sat up, looking desolately about her.
“Forever!” she whispered.
“No! No!” cried Gethryn.
“Ah! oui, mon ami!”
Gethryn went and stood by the window. The bedroom door was closed.
Day was breaking. He opened the window and looked into the white street. Lamps burned down there with a sickly yellow; a faint light showed behind the barred windows of the old gray barracks. One or two stiff sparrows hopped silently about the gutters, flying up hurriedly when the frost-covered sentinel stamped his boots before the barracks gate. Now and then a half-starved workman limped past, his sabots echoing on the frozen pavement. A hooded and caped policeman, a red-faced cabman stamping beside his sleepy horse—the street was empty but for them.