Well, it's too late."
"You're very young," he said in a voice as low as hers. "It mayn't always
be too late."
She started a little, drawing away from him. He had brought back thoughts
which the stress of pain and excitement had banished from her mind.
"You mean----?" she murmured. "I know what you mean, though." Her face
showed again a sort of puzzle. "I can't think of that happening. I tried
the other day--_a propos_ of something else; but I couldn't. I couldn't
see it, you know. It doesn't fit my ideas about him. No, that won't
happen. We must just go on."
The wind had begun to rise, the trees stirred, leaves rustled, the whole
making, or seeming to her ears to make, a sad whimsical moaning. She
rose, gathering her lace scarf closer round her neck, and saying, "Do you
hear the wood crying for us? It's sorry for our little troubles." She
stood facing him and he took both her hands in his. "You look so
unhappy," she said in a fresh access of pity. "No use, no use; it'll all
go on, right to the end of everything. So--good-bye.
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