What was there to do on a last day but look and note, and watch, and
take one's leave? The buds against the twig-laced sky were larger than
ever. To-morrow--the day after to-morrow ... it would be spring in
England, too!
"_Tenez_, mademoiselle," said the market woman, "there is a little
ounce of butter here that you may have!"
The morning passed and on drifted the day, and all was finished, all was
done, and love gone, too. And with love gone the less divine but wider
world lay open.
In the "Silver Lion" the patient girl behind the counter shook her head.
"There is no letter for you."
"And to-morrow I leave for England."
"If a letter comes where shall I send it on?"
"Thank you, but there will come no letter now. Good-bye."
"Good-bye."
It was the afternoon. Now such a tea, a happy, lonely tea--the last, the
best, in Charleville! Crossing the road from the "Silver Lion" Fanny
bought a round, flat, sandwich cake, and carried it to the house which
was her own for one more night, placed it in state upon the biggest of
the green and gold porcelain plates, and the anemones in a sugar-bowl
beside it. She lit the fire, made tea, and knelt upon the floor to toast
her bread. There was a half-conscious hurry in her actions.
("So long as nobody comes!" she whispered. "So long as I am left
alone!") she feared the good-byes of the _concierge_, the threatened
inventory of Philippe's mother, a call of state farewell from the
billeting lieutenant.
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