wrong—I can promise no more; but till then—till then—I will never willingly set eyes upon you again."
"Is this the end, Cynthia?"
"The end? Yes. I wish there had never been a beginning. I am sick of you, but most of all sick of myself."
"I will go, then."
"It is certainly best that you should."
It seemed as though the sound of her own voice had barely died away when he was out of sight. She waited a few moments, not so much in the hope that he would return, but because she felt that to stand there alone—determined if sorrowful—was not only the most artistic, but the most picturesque thing to do.
He returned, however. It was not so easy to leave her—with some of her tears on his sleeve. "It shall be as you say," he said. He felt as though he had signed away his soul.
Cynthia laughed with the gaiety of a child. "You goose! "she said, "you goose! Why couldn't you have given in sooner?"
Cynthia felt she had done well: the prospect of marrying a successful writer became daily more pleasing to her. As to the novelty of "being engaged," she had classed it in her list of tried-and-found-wanting experiments before the end of the first fortnight. She found her lover's interest in all that concerned her a decided nuisance: he asked her questions which were often difficult to answer: he was too anxious to take upon his own shoulders the