He twisted his shoulders irritably.

"Last talks are always odious!" he flung out abruptly.

"Last?" she queried. Her fingers were trifling nervously with the pages
of an album of songs that rested against the music-desk.

He did not look at her.

"Yes," he said quietly. "I'm going away. I leave for Paris to-morrow."

There was a crash of jangled notes as the album suddenly pitched forward
on to the keys of the piano.

With an impetuous movement he leaned towards her and caught her hand in
his.

"Nan!" he said hoarsely, "Nan! Do you care?"

But the next moment he had released her.

"I'm a fool!" he said. "What's the use of drawing a boundary line and
then overstepping it?"

"And where"--Nan's voice was very low--"where do you draw the line?"

He stood motionless a moment. Then he gestured a line with his hand--a
line between, himself and her.