was with her in her childhood; he was with the little Cécile Léonore, as he listened.
The clock in the hall, the brooding, mournful clock, struck ten. It was time to go. 'Yes. I'm afraid it's late. I must go back to Jill,' he said. He rose and stood above her.
'Shall I see you again?' she asked. It might have been indeed that she had reached the end of things and saw her sun sink.
'Yes. Yes,' he promised gravely. He wished he could keep her happy; without presage; with remembrance; with little Cécile in the beech forest. 'There's the portrait. We have that still to finish.'
She gazed up at him. 'We are to finish it?'
'We must finish it.' He saw that they must. For the first time, to-night, he saw that he owed her something.
'Good-night, then,' she said. She asked no question of when his time would be. And she said no word—ah! never a word, of Marthe Ludérac.
'Good-night.'
She rose to her feet and took her stick and prepared to go with him to the door.
'Shall I ring for Joseph?' he asked.
'No; Joseph is in Buissac, with his niece's family. And I will not wait for his return. I am tired. Would you lend me your arm to my room? The stairs at night are difficult for me.'
He gave her his arm and led her out. A night-light burned dimly in a saucer at the turning of the stair.
