“I’ll not listen, Hilary,” she said stubbornly.  “I will not hear!  No”; and Chayne drew her close to his side.

“There is bad news, Sylvia.”

The outcry died away upon her lips.  The words crushed the rebellion in her heart, they were so familiar.  It seemed to her that all her life bad news had been brought to her by every messenger.  She shivered and was silent, looking straight out across the moonlit sea.  Then in a small trembling voice, like a child’s, she pleaded, still holding her face averted: 

“Don’t go away from me, Hilary!  Oh, please!  Don’t go away from me now!”

Her voice, her words, went to Chayne’s heart.  He knew that pride and a certain reticence were her natural qualities.  That she should throw aside the one, break through the other, proved to him indeed how very much she cared, how very much she needed him.

“Sylvia,” he cried, “it will only be for a little while”; and again silence followed upon his words.

Since bad news was to be imparted, strength was needed to bear it; and habit had long since taught Sylvia that silence was the best nurse of strength.  She did not turn her face toward her lover; but she drooped her head and clenched her hands tightly together upon her knees, nerving herself for the blow.  The movement, slight though it was, stirred Chayne to pity and hurt him with an intolerable pain.  It betrayed so unmistakably the long habit of suffering.  She sat silent, motionless, with the dumb patience of a wounded animal.

“Oh, Sylvia, why did you not come with me on that first day?” he cried.

“Tell me your bad news, dear,” she replied, gently.

“I cannot help it,” he began in broken tones.  “Sylvia, you will see that there is no escape, that I must go.  An appointment was offered to me—­by the War Office.  It was offered to me, pressed on me, the day after I last came here, the day after we were together in the library.  I did not know what to do.  I did not accept it.  But it seemed to me that each time I came to see you we became more and more estranged.  I was given two days to make up my mind, and within the two days, my dear, your letter came, telling me you did not wish to see me any more.”

“Oh, Hilary!” she whispered.

“I accepted the appointment at once.  There were reasons why I welcomed it.  It would take me abroad!”

“Abroad!” she cried.

“Yes, I welcomed that.  To be near you and not to see you—­to be near you and know that others were talking with you, any one, every one except me—­to be near you and know that you were unhappy and in trouble, and that I could not even tell you how deeply I was sorry—­I dreaded that, Sylvia.  And yet I dreaded one thing more.  Here, in England, at each turn of the street, I should think to come upon you suddenly.  To pass you as a stranger, or almost as a stranger.  No!  I could not do it!”

“Oh, Hilary!” she whispered, and lifting his hand she laid it against her cheek.