for Paris--long
ago, before we met, you and I. I might meet with a good appointment
there. It is a chance for me. Help me to make up my mind. Shall I go?"

There fell a complete silence between them.

She sat on the music-stool, her back to the open piano, a pretty,
slight girl, with a dark and resolute little face. It confronted the
gloomy one before it now with an expression progressing from
expectation to surprise, to irritation, in its gaze. On her part, she
determined not to say another word to bridge the pause; but it seemed
that the silence would never be broken.

At length he slowly lifted his eyes to hers.

"I think, perhaps, it would be better for you to go," he said.

She sprang up from the stool, turned to the piano, began sorting, with
quick, nervous fingers, the music there.

"You think so? Very well; I'll go, then," she said. "I only wanted to
hear what you would think of it."

He had risen with an air of relief and picked up his hat. He looked in
silence for a minute at her straight back in its trim Norfolk jacket,
at her thick braids of black hair beneath the plain straw hat.

"Of course you know best what you wish," he said hesitatingly.

She placed the freshly arranged music with an air of decision on the
piano.

"I know very well what I wish, thank you," she said.

There was another silence.

"Is that all?" he asked her.

"Quite all. Except"--she turned round upon him and showed him that the
dark skin of her face had whitened, that her eyes were hurt and
angry--"except that Alick has to go next week. I suppose I ought to
give a term's notice; but also, if I don't, I suppose they'll do
without it--I shall be ready to go with him. We shall be busy till we
start. I may not see you to speak to again--this will be our good-bye."

"Is that so?" he said.

She could hardly believe her ears; she held her breath in the cruelty
of the surprise, and set her teeth to help her to bear the pain.

"Ours has been a long friendship," she said, striving to steady her
voice. "Two years--seeing each other every day. Strange, isn't it, how
things come to an end?"

"Except some things which are endless," he said.

She took heart of grace at that.

"You mean Faith?" she asked; "Love?" She looked at him eagerly.

"I mean Pain," he corrected her, and held out his hand.

She would not put hers within it.

"If, after these long two years, you can go like that, your friendship
is not what I thought it