Lida lost. Not Lida, but the lights kept her in his mind. Suddenly, while Ellen and he watched, the dead tired of their dance; the Aurora dimmed away.
In the dark he grasped Ellen's slim little hand; motor lights, from the north, gleamed far up the road.
"I don't like to leave this place," said Jay. "I don't like to leave you. I'd like to stretch out this day and keep you."
"I'd like to keep you," said Ellen. Her hand drew in his as though she would take it away but suddenly seized his again, and he grasped hers, clinging to her. He would have grasped and enfolded her and held to him the little brown body he had seen this day. He wanted her lips; he wanted her lips as never he had Lida's lips; he wanted to slip an arm down and lift her and in his arms hold her against his breast and kiss her and whisper to her, lips on hers; he wanted her hands upon his face, where so often had been Lida's; he wanted her.
He began to be able to see her, eyes lifted to his; brighter, he wanted it. But this was not the Aurora; it was motor headlights. He had to step from her; he had to let her go.
"Good-by," she whispered. "Good-by, Jay."
"Ellen," he said; but he had lost his chance for more. He could keep only her hand a few seconds longer. "Ellen, good-by," he said and stepped out on to the road.
