d that I loved you. That is either
above or below kindness, certainly not on a level with that tepid
feeling."

But Anne would not listen, "While I thank you, I wish at the same time
to say that I understand quite well that it is but an impulse which--"

"It _was_ but an impulse, I grant," said Heathcote, again interrupting
her, "but with roots too strong for me to break--as I have found to my
dismay," he added, smiling, as he met her eyes.

"I wish you, I beg you, to return to New York on this train now
waiting," said the girl, abandoning all her carefully composed
sentences, and bringing forward her one desire with an earnestness which
could not be doubted.

"I shall do nothing of the kind."

"But what is the use of going on?"

"I never cared much about use, Miss Douglas."

"And then there is the pain."

"Not for me."

"For me, then," she said, looking away from him across the net-work of
tracks, and up the little village street ending in the blue side of the
mountain. "Putting everything else aside, do you care nothing for my
pain?"

"I can not help caring more for the things you put aside, since _I_
happen to be one of them."

"You are selfish," she said, hotly. "I ask you to leave me; I tell you
your presence pains me; and you will not go." She drew her arm from his,
and turned toward the car. He lifted his hat, and went across to the
dining-hall.

Mademoiselle was eating cold toast. She considered that toast retained
its freshness longer than plain bread. Anne sat down beside her. She
felt a hope that Heathcote would perhaps take the city-bound train after
all. She heard the bell ring, and watched the passengers hasten forth
from the dining-hall. The eastward-bound train was going--was gone; a
golden space of sunshine and the empty rails were now where had been its
noise and bell and steam.

"Our own passengers will soon be returning," said Jeanne-Armande,
brushing away the crumbs, and looking at herself in the glass to see if
the helmet was straight.

"May I sit here with you?" said Anne.

"Certainly, my dear. But Mr. Heathcote--will he not be disappointed?"

"No," replied the girl, dully. "I do not think he will care to talk to
me this afternoon."

Jeanne-Armande said to herself that perhaps he would care to talk to
some one else. But she made no comment.

The train moved on. An hour passed, and he did not appear. The
Frenchwoman could not conceal her disappointment. "If he intended to