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es alone on hot pillows to outface the night and the light as best one may.
'Oh, goodbye; goodbye, all of you,' said Rose. 'I shall miss you. Oh, you don't know how I shall miss you all!'
She gathered the eyes of her friends and her worshippers in a glance, as one gathers jewels on a silken string. The eyes of Edward alone seemed to escape her.
'En voiture, messieurs et dames!'
Folk drew back from the train. There was a whistle.
And then at the very last little moment of all, as the train pulled itself together for the start, her eyes met Edward's eyes. And the other man saw the meeting, and he knew--which was more than Edward did.
So when, the light of life having been borne away in the retreating train, the broken-hearted group dispersed, the other man--whose name, by the way, was Vincent--linked his arm in Edward's and asked, cheerily:
'Whither away, sweet nymph?'
'I'm off home,' said Edward. 'The seven-twenty to Calais.'
'Sick of Paris?'
'One has to see one's people sometimes, don't you know, hang it all!' was Edward's way of expressing the longing that tore him for the old house among the brown woods of Kent.
'No attraction here now, eh?'
'The chief attraction has gone, certainly,' Edward made himself say.
'But there are as good fish in the sea--'
'Fishing isn't my trade,' said Edward.
'The beautiful Rose!' said Vincent.
Edward raised hurriedly the only shield he could find. It happened to be the truth as he saw it.
'Oh,' he said, 'of course, we're all in love with her--and all hopelessly.' Vincent perceived that this was truth, as Edward saw it.
'What are you going to do till your train goes?' he asked.
'I don't know. Café, I suppose, and a vilely early dinner.'
'Let's look in at the Museé Grévin,' said Vincent.
The two were friends. They had been schoolfellows, and this is a link that survives many a strain too strong to be resisted by more