She threw away the end of her cigarette. Without turning or looking
in his direction she leaned forwards, her head supported upon her
fingers, her elbows upon her knees. She gazed steadily out of the
window at that arc of glittering lights. He made a quick movement
towards her, but she did not flinch. His arm fell to his side. The
effort of self-repression cost him a sob.
"David," she said, "you are not a coward, are you?"
"I do not know," he muttered. "The bravest of us have joints in our
armour."
"You are not a coward," she repeated, "or you would not be my friend.
A woman may choose any one for her lover, but for her friend she makes
no mistake. You are not a coward David, and you must not talk like
one. Put out your hand and bid me God-speed. It is the only way."
"I cannot do it!" he cried hoarsely. "I cannot part with you. You have
grown into my life. Anna----"
Again she stopped him, but this time it was not so easy. The man's
passion became almost unbearable at the thought of losing her. And
yet, as she rose slowly to her feet and stood looking at him with
outstretched hands, a strange mixture of expressions shining in her
wonderful eyes, he realized in some measure the strength of her
determination, felt the utter impotence of anything which he could say
to her. He forgot for the moment his own self-pity, the egotism of his
own passionate love. He took her hands firmly in his and raised them
to his lips.
"You shall go," he declared. "I will make of the days and weeks one
long morning, but remember the afternoon must come. Always remember
that."
Her hands fell to her side. She remained for a few moments standing as
though listening to his retreating footsteps. Then she turned, and
entering the inner room, commenced to dress hastily for the street.