And the other man saw the meeting, and he knew-which was more than Edward did.

There was a whistle.Īnd then at the very last little moment of all, as the train pulled itself together for the start, her eyes met Edward's eyes. The eyes of Edward alone seemed to escape her.įolk drew back from the train. She gathered the eyes of her friends and her worshippers in a glance, as one gathers jewels on a silken string. Oh, you don't know how I shall miss you all!' 'Oh, goodbye goodbye, all of you,' said Rose. One pair of eyes at least saw the miracle worked, the paling of what had seemed absolute pallor, the revelation of the bones of a face that seemed already covered but by the thinnest possible veil of flesh.Īnd the man whose eyes saw this rejoiced, for he loved her, like the rest, or not like the rest, and he had had Edward's face before him for the last month, in that secret shrine where we set the loved and the hated, the shrine that is lighted by a million lamps kindled at the soul's flame, the shrine that leaps into dazzling glow when the candles are out and one lies alone on hot pillows to outface the night and the light as best one may. Not a single glance went Edward's way, and Edward-tall, lean, gaunt, with big eyes, straight nose, and the mouth somewhat too small, too beautiful-seemed to grow thinner and paler before one's eyes. All eyes were on her, and her eyes were for all-and her smile. She held her court like a queen, leaning out of the carriage window and receiving bouquets, books, journals, long last words, and last longing looks. She was one of those agitating blondes, with the naturally rippled hair, the rounded rose-leaf cheeks, the large violet-blue eyes, that looked all things and meant Heaven alone knew how little. And, as had been more than once said late of an evening, 'to see her was to love her'. Now she was off to the Riviera to meet her people, and everyone she knew was at the Gare de Lyon to catch the last glimpse of her. She had been the belle of the Artists' Quarter in Montparnasse for three golden months. Half the students from her atelier were there, and twice as many more from other studios.

In the Dark by E. Nesbit