So we shall have six mornings here—six mornings all to ourselves. Do you know what that means to me?"
She took the chair he offered her. She did not look appalled by this intelligence of his early departure.
"It means six more days of happiness: and do you not think I shall look back on them with gratitude? And there is not to be a word said about my going. No; it is understood that we cut off the past and the future for these six days. We are here; we can speak to each other; that is enough."'
"But how can one help thinking of the future?" said she, with a mock mournfulness. "You are going away alone."
"No, not quite alone."
She looked up quickly.
"Why, you know what Evelyn is—the best-hearted of friends," he said to her. "He insists on going over to America with me, and even talks of remaining a year or two. He pretends to be anxious to study American politics."
He could not understand why she laughed—though it was a short, quick, hysterical laugh, very near to tears.
"You remind me of one of Mr. Browning's poems," she said, half in apology. "It is about a man who has a friend and a sweetheart. You don't remember it, perhaps?"
He thought for a moment.