“Thank you ever so much for the lovely ride. And—er— Well, good night—or, rather good-by, for I suppose you’ll be leaving to-morrow.”
“I ought to,” he groaned, dubiously. “Good night! Good-by!”
He climbed in, waved his hat to her, and she her gloves at him. Far down the street he turned again to stare back and to wave farewell again. He could not see her, but she was there, mystically sorrowing at the lost opportunity of happiness, the unheeded advice of nature—in the mood of Paul Bourget’s elegy as Debussy set it to music:
“Un conseil d’être heureux semble sortir des choses
Et monter vers le cœur troublé,
Un conseil de goûter le charme d’être au monde
Cependant qu’on est jeune et que le soir est beau;
Car nous nous en allons, comme s’en va cette onde—
Elle à la mer, nous au tombeau.”