"Tell me, what can I do for you?"
She made no answer, only her face appeared to grow a shade paler. With
her eyes on the clock, she seemed to listen. "Nothing," she replied at
last. "You--you must go."
"So soon?"
"Yes," she said, with a choking sob. "You ought not to have come here,
and--and you must forgive me, Theophile, we women are so weak when
memories are painful."
She wished to aid me in my preparations for departure, handed me my hat
and buttoned my coat. We said nothing, but she lingered over the
buttoning as though it were something very difficult.
Suddenly, with a bitter burst of tears, she flung her head down against
my arm. She seemed such a frail little creature as I held her tightly
and stroked away the tendril curls that strayed across her face.