came, as though there were nothing more to say...

That moment seemed at last to be at hand when, at her usual hour after
dinner, Madame de Chantelle rose to go upstairs. She lingered a little
to bid good-bye to Darrow, whom she was not likely to see in the
morning; and her affable allusions to his prompt return sounded in
Anna's ear like the note of destiny.

A cold rain had fallen all day, and for greater warmth and intimacy they
had gone after dinner to the oak-room, shutting out the chilly vista of
the farther drawing-rooms. The autumn wind, coming up from the river,
cried about the house with a voice of loss and separation; and Anna and
Darrow sat silent, as if they feared to break the hush that shut them
in. The solitude, the fire-light, the harmony of soft hangings and old
dim pictures, wove about them a spell of security through which Anna
felt, far down in her heart, the muffled beat of an inextinguishable
bliss. How could she have thought that this last moment would be the
moment to speak to him, when it seemed to have gathered up into its
flight all the scattered splendours of her dream?

XXXVI

Darrow continued to stand by the door after it had closed. Anna felt
that he was looking at her, and sat still, disdaining to seek refuge in
any evasive word or movement. For the last time she wanted to let him
take from her the fulness of what the sight of her could give.

He crossed over and sat down on the sofa. For a moment neither of them
spoke; then he said: "To-night, dearest, I must have my answer."

She straightened herself under the shock of his seeming to take the very
words from her lips.

"To-night?" was all that she could falter.

"I must be off by the early train. There won't be more than a moment in
the morning."

He had taken her hand, and she said to herself that she must free it
before she could go on with what she had to say. Then she rejected this
concession to a weakness she was resolved to defy. To the end she would
leave her hand in his hand, her eyes in his eyes: she would not, in
their final hour together, be afraid of any part of her love for him.

"You'll tell me to-night, dear," he insisted gently; and his insistence
gave her the strength to speak.

"There's something I must ask you," she broke out, perceiving, as she
heard her words, that they were not in the least what she had meant to
say.

He sat still, waiting, and she pressed on: "Do such things happen to men
o