Sally shook her head.
"Not ever?"
Sally shook her head again.
Jane stood, for a minute, gazing out over the desolate marsh. Then he drew a long breath and turned.
"Well," he said, smiling mirthlessly and raising his hat, "shall I—shall we go back?"
Sally was angry, but I don't know what for. "No," she was decided about it; much more decided than was at all necessary. "You need not trouble to go back with me."
"Oh," said Jane. He smiled again and flushed slowly. "Then, if you will excuse me, I will go to the station."
So Jane was gone—or going—with head held high and a flush on his face. He did not look back. Sally, as she watched him go, had a revulsion of feeling and would have called to him. To what end? She could not change her answer. And the sound died on her lips and she stamped her foot angrily, and watched him out of sight. Then she fled to her room and wept. Why, I wonder? Sally did not know. Suddenly she had lost something out of her life. What? Sally did not know that either. It was not Jane she wept for. Whatever it was, she knew that she could never get it back again; never, never.