The summer had passed without a doubt, and now, all
at once, something new came to him, indefinable, colored with the vague
terror of the night, the fear of other men who would come thronging
about her, in the other life, where he could not follow.
Around the forked promontory to the east, the lights of the little
packet-boat for England appeared, like the red cinder in a pipe,
slipping toward the horizon. It was the signal for a lover's embrace,
conceived long ago in fancy and kept in tenderness.
"Madeleine," he said, touching her arm. "There it is--our little boat."
"Ah! _le p'tit bateau_--with its funny red and green eyes."
She turned and raised her lips to his; and the kiss, which she did not
give but permitted, seemed only fraught with an ineffable sadness, the
end of all things, the tearing asunder and the numbness of separation.
She returned to her pose, her eyes fixed on the little packet, saying:
"It's late."
"Yes."
"It goes fast."
"Very."
They spoke mechanically, and then not at all. The dread of the morning
was too poignant to approach the things that must be said.
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