made much money.  The rouquin would not come.  He said he was an American citizen and had all his papers.  For the rest, the captain would not let him come, though doubtless the captain could have been bribed.  As they left the harbour, with other trawlers, they could see the quays all covered with the disappointed, waiting.  Somebody in the boat said that the Germans had that morning reached—­She forgot the name of the place, but it was the next village to Ostend on the Bruges road.  Thus Christine parted from the rouquin.  Mad!  Always wrong, even about the German submarines.  But chic.  Truly chic.

What a voyage!  What adventures with the charitable people in England!  People who resembled nothing else on earth!  People who did not understand what life was....  No understanding of that which it is—­life!  In fine ...!  However, she should stay in England.  It was the only country in which one could have confidence.  She was trying to sell the furniture of her flat in Paris.  Complications!  Under the emergency law she was not obliged to pay her rent to the landlord; but if she removed her furniture then she would have to pay the rent.  What did it matter, though?  Besides, she might not be able to sell her furniture after all.  Remarkably few women in Paris at that moment were in a financial state to buy furniture.  Ah no!

“But I have not told you the tenth part!” said Christine.

“Terrible!  Terrible!” murmured the man.

All the heavy sorrow of the world lay on her puckered brow, and floated in her dark glistening eyes.  Then she smiled, sadly but with courage.

“I will come to see you again,” said the man comfortingly.  “Are you here in the afternoons?”

“Every afternoon, naturally.”

“Well, I will come—­not to-morrow—­the day after to-morrow.”

Already, long before, interrupting the buttoning of his collar, she had whispered softly, persuasively, clingingly, in the classic manner: 

“Thou art content, cheri?  Thou wilt return?”

And he had said:  “That goes without saying.”

But not with quite the same conviction as he now used in speaking definitely of the afternoon of the day after to-morrow.  The fact was, he was moved; she too.  She had been right not to tell the story earlier, and equally right to tell it before he departed.  Some men, most men, hated to hear any tale of real misfortune, at any moment, from a woman, because, of course, it diverted their thoughts.

In thus departing at once the man showed characteristic tact.  Her recital left nothing to be said.  They kissed again, rather like comrades.  Christine was still the vessel of the heavy sorrow of the world, but in the kiss and in their glances was an implication that the effective, triumphant antidote to sorrow might be found in a mutual trust.  He opened the door.  The Italian woman, yawning and with her hand open, was tenaciously waiting.