“Do,” she said, in a gentle voice, and she gathered the scarlet poppies as she spoke.

“There were two friends once upon a time,” I began, “who loved each other with a love deeper and truer than the love of brothers.”

She nodded her head with a charming smile; I saw an expression of great relief pass over her face.

“I understand,” she said; “as you and Lance love each other, there is something most beautiful in the love of men.”

“These two spent much time together; their interests were identical, they shared at that time the same hopes and fears.  They were parted for a time, one was busy with his own affairs, the other, an invalid, went to Brighton for his health.”

How the smile died away; the sun did not set more surely or more slowly than that sweet smile of interest died from her lips, but no fear replaced it at first.

“The friend who was an invalid went to Brighton, as I have said, for his health, and either fate or Providence took him one night to the Chain Pier.”

I did not look at her; I dared not.  My eyes wandered over the running river, where the crimson clouds were reflected like blood; but I heard a gasping sound as of breath hardly drawn.  I went on: 

“The Chain Pier that evening lay in the midst of soft, thick gloom; there was no sound on it save the low washing of the waves and the shrill voice of the wind as it played amongst the wooden piles.  He sat silent, absorbed in thought, when suddenly a woman came down the pier—­a tall, beautiful woman, who walked to the end and stood leaning there.”

I saw the scarlet poppies fall from the nerveless hands on the green grass, but the figure by my side seemed to have suddenly turned to stone.  I dare not look at her.  The scene was far greater agony to me, I almost believe, than to her.  I went on: 

“The woman stood there for some short time in silence; then she became restless, and looked all around to see if anyone were near.

“Then she walked to the side of the pier.  She did not see the dark form in the corner; she raised something in her arms and dropped it into the sea.”

There was a sound, but it was like nothing human—­it was neither sigh nor moan, but more pitiful than either; the poppies lay still on the grass, and a great hush seemed to have fallen over the river.

“Into the sea,” I repeated, “and the man, as it fell, saw a shawl of black and gray.”

She tried to spring up, and I knew that her impulse was to rush to the river.  I held her arms, and she remained motionless; the very air around us seemed to beat with passionate pulse of pain.