That evening, after spending some hours in trying to devise a plan by which I could evade the humiliation of an absolute surrender, and get back without crawling too basely, I went over to say what I called—good-by. I was alone; for Dix had abandoned me for her, and I did not blame him even now. It was just dusk; but it seemed to me midnight. I had never known the fields so dark. As I turned into a path through the orchard where I had had so many happy hours, I discovered her sitting on the ground beneath a tree with Dix beside her; but as I approached she rose and leant against the tree, her dryad eyes resting on me placidly. I walked up slowly.
"Good evening—" solemnly.
"Good evening—" seriously.
I was choosing amongst a half-dozen choice sentences I had framed as an introduction to my parting speech, when she said quietly, looking up: "I thought you might not come back this evening."
"I have come to say good-by."
"Are you going away?" Her voice expressed surprise—nothing more.
"Yes." Solemnly.
"For how long?"—without looking up.
"Perhaps, forever." Tragically.
"You are better at making a fire than I had supposed. Will you give me Dix?" This with the flash of a dimple.