“Oh! I love you! I love you! One kiss, no; no; on the lips. Good-bye, my own Rex!”
“You will come again?” he said, crushing her to him.
Her eyes looked into his.
“I will come. I love you! Be true to me, Rex. I will come back.”
Her lover could not speak. Doors slamming, and an impatient voice—“Descendez donc, M’sieu!”—roused him; he sprang from the carriage, and the train rolled slowly out of the smoke-filled station.
How heavy the smoke was! Gethryn could hardly breathe—hardly see. He walked away and out into the street. The city was only half awake even yet. After, as it seemed, a long time, he found himself looking at a clock which said a quarter past ten. The winter sunshine slanted now on roof and pane, flooding the western side of the shabby boulevard, dappling the snow with yellow patches. He had stopped in the chilly shadow of a gateway and was looking vacantly about. He saw the sunshine across the street and shivered where he was, and yet he did not leave the shadow. He stood and watched the sparrows taking bold little baths in the puddles of melted snow water. They seemed to enjoy the sunshine, but it was cold in the shade, cold and damp—and the air was hard to breathe. A policeman sauntered by and eyed him curiously. Rex’s face was haggard and pinched. Why had he stood there in the cold for half an hour, without ever changing his weight from one foot to the other?
The policeman spoke at last, civilly:
“Monsieur!”
Gethryn turned his head.
“Is it that Monsieur seeks the train?” he asked, saluting.