veil about her hat-brim. He had tried in vain to keep his voice from shaking as he spoke.
"You said once that the world was small," she began, in little more than a whisper. Then she stopped, hesitating. He realised, at that moment, how they were proceeding by indirection only, how vast were the reservations which dare not be forgotten, how divergent were the lives confronting each other across a narrow desk-top in that water-front cellar. But the desolation in his heart seemed more than he could endure.
"We may meet again," she was saying. "Some time when I can meet you without—without shame."
She was at the bottom of the steep little flight of steps that led to the street and liberty. One hand was on the rusty iron railing. He could have reached out and taken it. But he made no effort to stop her.
"We shall meet again!" he cried out with sudden conviction, catching at that hope as the drowning catch at a life-belt.
"Good-bye," she said very quietly. For one moment she looked into his eyes, and then she turned away. Her face, he remembered, was quite colourless. It wore more an air of relinquishment than of triumph. There were no tears in the dark lashed eyes as they gazed down into his, for she was already on the first step leading to the street. But they seemed crowned with a shadowy wistfulness that impressed him as more poignant than tears. And he cherished the thought, foolishly, that in that last vision of her, he was compelled to look up to her, and not down at her.
••••••
