brows, and looks which betrayed the storm that raged within him. I stepped backwards. He stood for an instant struggling with himself, and I fully expected he would rush at me.
But his breeding prevailed. He made a courtly bow, kissed my hand and retired.
I stood where I was, with head bent forward. … That page, with his dear tawny eye-lashes—with his soft sad eyes—with his lips, of the odour of faded roses—he that once had been mine!
"All the same," I whispered to myself, "the thing is done at last!"
To-day I feel I have crossed the Rubicon, and am standing on the farther shore, not very sure whether things are better with me now. And yet, I should not wish to go back again.
I have this morning received several nose-gays.
Flowers to embellish the funeral repast! Flowers on the coffin of one gone forever!
But that is nothing. No, nothing, I swear! Often and often the monument over a sepulchre may turn into a gate that leads to a new life.
