"Good-bye and Good-luck!"

And her silly hand clutching the window ledge. She let go, quick, afraid
he would turn sentimental at the end. But no; he was settling down
heavily in his corner, blinking and puffing over his cigar.

That was her knapsack lying on the seat there. She picked it up and slung
it over her shoulder.

Cirencester? Or back to Stow-on-the-Wold? If only he hadn't come there
last night. If only he had let her alone.

She meditated. She would have to wire to Gwinnie Denning to meet her at
Cirencester. She wondered whether Gwinnie's mother's lumbago would last
over the week-end. It was Friday. Perhaps Gwinnie had started. Perhaps
there would be a wire from her at the hotel.

Going on to Cirencester when you wanted to be in Stow-on-the-Wold, what
_was_ it but a cowardly retreat? Driven out of Stow-on-the-Wold by
Gibson? Not she!

Dusk at ten o'clock in the morning under the trees on the mile-long hill.
You climbed up and up a steep green tunnel. The sun would be blazing at
its mouth on the top. Nothing would matter. Certainly not this affair
with Gibson Herbert. She could see clearly her immense, unique passion
thus diminished. Surprising what a lot of it you could forget. Clean
forget. She supposed you forgot because you couldn't bear to remember.

But there were days that stood out; hours; little minutes that thrilled
you even now and stung.