You are going, then?" says she, sharply, checking the monotonous little
tattoo she has been playing on the bridge rail, as though suddenly
smitten into stone. She had heard he was going, she had been told of it
by several people, but somehow she had never believed it. It had never,
come home to her until now.

"Yes. We are under orders for India. We sail in about a month. I shall
have to leave here almost immediately."

"So soon?" says she, vaguely. She has begun that absurd tattoo again,
but bridge, and restless little fingers, and sky and earth, and all
things seem blotted out. He is going, really going, and for ever! How
far is India away?

"It is always rather hurried at last. For my part I am glad I am going."

"Yes?"

"Mrs. Monkton will--at least I am sure she will--let me have a line now
and then to let me know how you--how you are all getting on. I was going
to ask her about it this evening. You think she will be good enough?"

"Barbara is always kind."

"I suppose"--he hesitates, and then goes on with an effort--"I suppose
it would be too much to ask of you----"

"What?"

"That you would sometimes write me a letter--however short."

"I am a bad correspondent," says she, feeling as if she were choking.

"Ah! I see. I should not have asked, of course. Yes, you are right. It
was absurd my hoping for it."

"When people choose to go away so far as that----" she is compelling
herself to speak, but her voice sounds to herself a long way off.

"They must hope to be forgotten. 'Out of sight out of mind,' I know. It
is such an old proverb. Well----You are cold," says he suddenly, noting
the pallor of the girl's face. "Whatever you were before, you are
certainly chilled to the bone now. You look it. Come, this is no time of
year to be lingering out of doors without a coat or hat."

"I have this shawl," says she, pointing to the soft white, fleecy thing
that covers her.

"I distrust it. Come."

"No," says she, faintly. "Go on; you give your message to Barbara. As
for me, I shall be happier here."

"Where I am not," says he, with a bitter laugh. "I suppose I ought to be
accustomed to that thought now, but such is my conceit that it seems
ever a fresh shock to me. Well, for all that," persuadingly, "come in.
The evening is very cold. I shan't like to go away, leaving you behind
me suffering from a bad cough or something of that kind. We have been
friends, Joyce," with a rather sorry smile. "For the sake