When she finally held out her little hand to me it was warm, and I
fancied that from it came a current that was comforting, though it may
have been but the affectionate regard of some years of good friendship.

"You will dine again with me, next Thursday?" I asked her. "It will take
me a few days to get ready."

"Don't you think that Gordian knot had better be cut at once?" advised
Dora. "I won't change my mind, and you know I've always been an obstinate
thing. There are important things for both of us to achieve, somewhere. I
must grope about to find my share of them, for I feel like the ship that
did not find itself till it encountered a storm or two. If I promised to
meet you next week you would keep on hoping. Do plunge right in now
instead of shivering on the bank."

"Don't trouble about any more metaphors," I told her. "You promise to go
home within a year?"

"I firmly intend to," she replied, "but you can't always depend on a
woman's plans."

"If I can't depend on you I have very little left to believe in," I
declared.

"I'm pretty sure I'll come," she said, "and--and God bless you, John!"

So we separated there, in the silent street, before the nurses' home
where she had taken a room a few days after her graduation. I couldn't
trust myself to say anything more.