on us. The thing had not come in either of the
fashions in which I had pictured it, neither in weariness nor in
excitement. It came full with emotions, but emotions that were subdued
shadows of themselves, of a mournful sweetness, bewailing their lost
strength, yet shrinking from remembrance of it. Would we have gone back
if we could? Now I could not answer the question. Yet we could weep,
because to go back was impossible. But it was with a slight laugh that
at last I rose to my feet to say good-bye.

"It's like you always to laugh at the end," she said, a little in
reproach, but more, I think, in the pleasure of recognising what was
part of her idea of me. "You used often to do it, even when you
were--even before. You remember the first time of all--when we smiled at
one another behind your mother's back? That oldest memory comforts me.
Do you know why? I was never so many centuries older than you again. I'm
not so many even now. You look old, I think, and seem old; if we're
nearer together, it's your fault, not my merit. Well, you must go. Ah,
how you fill time! How you could have filled a woman's life!"

"Could have? Your mood is right."

"Surely she'll be happy with you? If you could love her?"

"Not even then. I'm not to her measure."

"Are you unhappy?"

"It's better than the worst, a great deal better. Good-bye."

I pressed her hand and kissed it. With a sudden seeming formality she
curtseyed and kissed mine.

"I don't forget what you are," she said, "because I have fancied you as
something besides. Good-bye, sire. Good-bye, Augustin."

"There's a name wanting."

"Ah, to Caesar I said good-bye five years ago." The tears were in her
eyes as I turned away and left her.

I had a fancy to walk back alone, as I had walked alone from her house
on the day when I cut the bond between us that same five years ago.
Having dismissed my carriage, I set out in the cool of the autumn
evening as dusk had just fallen, and took my way through the decorated
streets. Only three days more lay between the decorations and the
occasion they were meant to grace. There was a hum of gaiety through all
the town; they had begun their holiday-making, and the shops did
splendid trade. They in Forstadt would have liked to marry me every
year. Why not? I was to them a sign, a symbol, something they saw and
spoke of, but not a man. I reviewed the troops every year. Why should I
not be married every year? It would be but the smalles