"Yes," he sighed. "I'm often compelled to make quick journeys from one part of the Continent to the other. I am a constant traveller—too constant, perhaps, for I've nowadays grown very world-weary and restless."
"Well," she exclaimed, "if you will not come to the château, where shall we meet?"
"I will write to you," he replied. "At this moment my movements are most uncertain—they depend almost entirely upon the movements of others. At any moment I may be called away. But a letter to Holles Street will always find me, you know."
He seemed unusually serious and strangely preoccupied, she thought. She noticed, too, that he had flung away his half-consumed cigar in impatience, and that he had rubbed his chin with his left hand, a habit of his when puzzled.
At the crossroads where the leafless poplars ran in straight lines towards the village of Fresnes, a big red motor-car passed them at a tearing pace, and in it Enid recognised General Molon.
Fetherston, although an ardent motorist himself, cursed the driver under his breath for bespattering them with mud. Then, with a word of apology to his charming companion, he held her gloved hand for a moment in his.
Their parting was not prolonged. The man's lips were thin and hard, for his resolve was firm.
This girl whom he had grown to love—who was the very sunshine of his strange, adventurous life—was, he had at last realised, unworthy. If he was to live, if the future was to have hope and joy for him, he must tear her out of his life.
Therefore he bade her adieu, refusing to give her any tryst for the morrow.
"It is all so uncertain," he repeated. "You will write to me in London if you do not hear from me, won't you?"