"It isn't that," she said. "I know we shall meet again. It isn't that I
fear never to see you again. It is the closing of a chapter."
"I, too, know that."
They drove into Amiens in the streaming daylight.
The rain poured.
"I am sending you to my home," he said. "Every inch of the country is
mine. You go to a town that I know, villages that I know, roads that I
have walked and ridden and driven upon. You go to my country. I like to
think of that."
"I shall go at once to see your house in Revins."
"Yes--oh, you will see it easily--on the banks of the Meuse. I was born
there. In a week, in a few days, in a short time--I will come, too."
She stopped the car in a side street of the town.
Lifting her hands she said: "They want to hold you back." Then placed
them back on the wheel. "They can't," she said, and shook her head.
He took his bag in his hand, and stood by the car, looking at her.
"You take the three o'clock train back to Paris when the papers are
through," she said hurriedly with sudden nervousness. And then: "Oh,
we've said everything! Oh, let's get it over--"
He held the side of the car with his hand, then stepped back sharply.
She drove down the street without looking back.
There was a sort of relief in turning the next corner, in knowing that
if she looked back she would see nothing.
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