r away the weeds, but I have not the courage now. And
perhaps it does not matter much."

"I think it does matter," she said gently. "But I am no better than you,
for I have not cultivated my garden.''

"It would not be such a difficult business for you as for me," he said,
smiling sadly.

They left the restaurant, and sauntered out together.

"And to-morrow you will be gone," he said.

"I shall miss you," Bernardine said.

"That is simply a question of time," he remarked. "I shall probably miss
you at first. But we adjust ourselves easily to altered circumstances:
mercifully. A few days, a few weeks at most, and then that state of
becoming accustomed, called by pious folk, resignation."

"Then you think that the every-day companionship, the every-day exchange
of thoughts and ideas, counts for little or, nothing?" she asked.

"That is about the colour of it," he answered, in his old gruff way.

She thought of his words when she was packing: the many pleasant hours
were to count for nothing; for nothing the little bits of fun, the
little displays of temper and vexation, the snatches of serious talk,
the contradictions, and all the petty details of six months' close
companionship.

He was not different from the others who had parted from her so lightly.
No wonder, then, that he could sympathise with them.

That last night at Petershof, Bernardine hardened her heart against the
Disagreeable Man.

"I am glad I am able to do so," she said to herself. "It makes it
easier for me to go."

Then the vision of a forlorn figure rose before her. And the little
hard heart softened at once.

In the morning they breakfasted together as usual. There was scarcely
any conversation between them. He asked for her address, and she told
him that she was going back to her uncle who kept the second-hand book-
shop in Stone Street.

"I will send you a guide-book from the Tyrol," he explained. "I shall
be going there in a week or two to see my mother."

"I hope you will find her in good health," she said.

Then it suddenly flashed across her mind what he had told her about his
one great sacrifice for his mother's sake. She looked up at him, and he
met her glance without flinching.

He said good-bye to her at the foot of the staircase.

It was the first time she had ever shaken hands with him.

"Good-bye," he said gently. "Good luck to you."

"Good-bye," she answered.

He went up the stairs, and turned round as though he