Friday evening came, and the two sat dismally down to table d’hôte with defeat staring them in the face. They said very little, but each knew the mortification in the other’s breast.
At last, when the meal was over, Mr Armstrong said—
“I suppose we had better go and get our tickets.”
“I suppose so.”
But the bureau was closed for the night, and the two took a solitary walk along the beach. They walked on further than usual in the clear moonlight, till at last the tutor looked at his watch.
“It’s nine o’clock,” said he; “we must go back.”
“Let’s take the country road back.”
“It is a mile longer.”
“Never mind. It is our last night.”
So they struck up by the cliffs, and followed the chalky country road back to Boulogne.