girl would make an assignation at that hour just to tell a man that she intended to meet him again the next day. So he must know whether he meant to permit himself to be said good-by to. And he knew that he did not. [47] [48] [48] The day had been long, but it seemed to him that already the night had been longer than the day. Could he have mistaken the hour? No, it was certainly twelve—or thirteen. Then his heart leaped up. If it had been thirteen, that meant one o'clock. Perhaps it was not one yet. But he felt that he knew it to be at least three. Yet if it were three there would be the diffused faint illumination of dawn growing, growing. And there was no light at all but the changeless light of the stars. Again and again he thought he saw her, thought he heard her. And again and again only silence and solitude came to meet his thoughts. When at last she did come he saw her very far off, and heard the rustle of her dress even before he saw her. He would not go to meet her across the starlit space; that would be very dangerous. He stood where he was till she came into the shadow. Then he went toward her and said: "At last!" She drew a long breath. "Oh, I was so afraid you wouldn't come!" "I was here at twelve," he said. "So you got the handkerchief. I put thirteen because I thought if I put one—it was so difficult to write—and, of course, I couldn't look at it to[49] see if it was readable. I wrote it under the driving-rug. Oh, suppose you hadn't got it!" [49] "I can't suppose it. What should I have done if I hadn't?" "Oh," she said, "don't! Please don't. I thought you'd understand it was serious. I shouldn't have asked you to come in the middle of the night to talk nonsense as if we were at a dance." "What's serious?" he said. She said, "Everything," and her voice trembled.
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