had moved it more it would have sunk on the table and she would have burst out crying; but, as it was, her eyes only filled with tears.
“Annie,” cried Prokop in desperation, and took shelter near the door, “I won’t even take leave of you; look, it isn’t worth it; in a week, a month I shall be here again . . . see” He could not help watching her; she sat perfectly still, with relaxed shoulders; he could not see her eyes; it was painful to look at her. “Annie,” he tried again, and again was unable to go on. The last moment in the doorway seemed to him to be endless; he felt that there was still something which he should say or do, but instead he forced out of himself an “Au revoir” and stole miserably away.
He left the house like a thief, on tiptoe. For a moment he hesitated outside the door behind which he had left Annie. Inside all was quiet, a fact which caused him unspeakable agony. In the porch he stopped short like a person who has forgotten something and went softly to the kitchen—thank God, Nanda was not there!—and picked up the Politika. “. . . ATIT! . . . address Carson, Poste Restante.” Thus it ran on a fragment of newspaper which the cheerful Nanda had used for covering a shelf.
Prokop left a handful of money in return for her services and made off.
Prokop, Prokop, you are not the only man who intends to return in a week!
“We're off, we’re off,” beat the wheels of the train. But its noisy, vibrating pace did not suffice
