'No, no—you must not say that. That is not like you. That is not kind. It is not that I do not wish to see you—do not like you. But can you not recognize yourself that what you ask is impossible? I am rooted here, deep, deep in the soil. I shall stay here, always. It is my home. You are a stranger, passing by. I shall not forget you. I shall always remember you. But that is not friendship. A friend is something that one keeps;—that one keeps always. A friend is part of one's life.' She turned when she had said this, and went before Jill over the causeway to the road. Jill, following, felt like the child rebuked, though so gently rebuked. She felt, further, that it was perhaps just that she should be rebuked. How immature, headlong, even glib, her assurance must have seemed, Mademoiselle Ludérac's words revealed to her. And yet;—under it all, she went on believing that Mademoiselle Ludérac was to be her friend. She believed it more than ever.
On the highroad Mademoiselle Ludérac paused. 'Au revoir, chère Madame,' she said and she held out her hand. It might be in mere formality, yet some deep emotion strove with the schooled tranquillity of her regard.
'Au revoir,' said Jill, taking the hand and looking back at her quietly.
'I thank you,' Mademoiselle Ludérac then said in a low voice. 'I beg you to believe in my gratitude.' And she turned and walked quickly up the road.
Jill walked on towards Buissac. The central scene
