we parted at last at a cab-rank near a bridge over the canal at the western end of park village. i remember that i made a last appeal to her as we walked towards it, and that we loitered on the bridge, careless of who might see us there, in a final conflict of our wills. "before it is too late, mary, dear," i said.

she shook her head, her white lips pressed together.

"but after the things that have happened. that night—the moonlight!"

"it's not fair," she said, "for you to talk of that. it isn't fair."

"but mary. this is parting. this indeed is parting."

she answered never a word.

"then at least talk to me again for one time more."

"afterwards," she said. "afterwards i will talk to you. don't make things too hard for me, stephen."

"if i could i would make this impossible. it's—it's hateful."

she turned to the kerb, and for a second or so we stood there without speaking. then i beckoned to a hansom.

she told me beatrice normandy's address.

i helped her into the cab. "good-bye," i said with a weak affectation of an everyday separation, and i turned to the cabman with her instructions.

then again we looked at one another. the cabman waited. "all right, sir?" he asked.

"go ahead!" i said, and lifted my hat to the little white face within.

i watched the cab until it vanished round the curve of the road. then i turned about to a world that had become very large and empty and meaningless.