"I am not surprised that you refuse to believe me," returned Ida,
smiling very faintly. "Still, it is the truth. And now I must go in
again;--I am very tired."

"No," he exclaimed as she moved away, "you must not go in till--
till you have forgotten me. At least come away to a quiet place,
where I can speak freely to you; these people--"

"To-morrow morning," she said, waving her hand wearily. "I can't
talk now--and indeed there is no need to speak of this at all. I
have forgotten it."

"No, you have not; how could you?--And you will not go to-morrow;
you shall not."

"Yes, I must," she returned firmly.

"Then I shall go with you."

"As you like. I shall leave by the express at five minutes past
nine."

"Then I shall be at the station. But at least I may walk home with
you?"

"No, please. If you wish me to think you are sincere,--if you wish
us still to be friends--stay till I have left the pier.--Good
night."