"Annette!"
"Let us forgive each other!" she said.
He wished to speak; he could not. Their hands remained clasped. They did not look at each other, but each knew that the other was holding back the tears, ready to flow. . . .
They were at the station; they had to be discreet. Roger installed Annette in her carriage. She was not alone in the compartment. They had to restrict themselves to commonplace courtesies; but the eyes of each were avidly seizing upon the image of the other's beloved face.
The engine whistled.
"Till we meet again!" they said.
And they were thinking: "Never!"
The train pulled out. Roger returned home in the falling night. His heart was full of sorrow and of anger. Of anger against Annette. Of anger against himself. He felt torn asunder. He felt—oh, shame!—he felt relieved. . . .
And stopping his horse on the deserted road, in contempt for himself and in contempt for love, he wept bitterly.