away.

Longmore the next day wandered off to the terrace to try and beguile the
restlessness with which he waited for the evening; he wished to see
Madame de Mauves for the last time at the hour of long shadows and pale
reflected amber lights, as he had almost always seen her. Destiny,
however, took no account of this humble plea for poetic justice; it was
appointed him to meet her seated by the great walk under a tree and
alone. The hour made the place almost empty; the day was warm, but as he
took his place beside her a light breeze stirred the leafy edges of
their broad circle of shadow. She looked at him almost with no pretence
of not having believed herself already rid of him, and he at once told
her that he should leave Saint-Germain that evening, but must first bid
her farewell. Her face lighted a moment, he fancied, as he spoke; but
she said nothing, only turning it off to far Paris which lay twinkling
and flashing through hot exhalations. "I've a request to make of you,"
he added. "That you think of me as a man who has felt much and claimed
little."

She drew a long breath which almost suggested pain. "I can't think of
you as unhappy. That's impossible. You've a life to lead, you've duties,
talents, inspirations, interests. I shall hear of your career. And
then," she pursued after a pause, though as if it had before this quite
been settled between them, "one can't be unhappy through having a better
opinion of a friend instead of a worse."

For a moment he failed to understand her. "Do you mean that there can be
varying degrees in my opinion of you?"

She rose and pushed away her chair. "I mean," she said quickly, "that