Geoffrey drew a ring from his finger and gave it to his love.  It was a common flat-sided silver ring that had been taken from the grave of a Roman soldier:  one peculiarity it had, however; on its inner surface were roughly cut the words, “ave atque vale.”  Greeting and farewell!  It was a fitting gift to pass between people in their position.  Beatrice, trembling sorely, whispered that she would wear it on her heart, upon her hand she could not put it yet awhile—­it might be recognised.

Then thrice did they embrace there upon the desolate shore, once, as it were, for past joy, once for present pain, and once for future hope, and parted.  There was no talk of after meetings—­they felt them to be impossible, at any rate for many years.  How could they meet as indifferent friends?  Too much they loved for that.  It was a final parting, than which death had been less dreadful—­for Hope sits ever by the bed of death—­and misery crushed them to the earth.

He left her, and happiness went out of his life as at nightfall the daylight goes out of the day.  Well, at least he had his work to go to.  But Beatrice, poor woman, what had she?

Geoffrey left her.  When he had gone some thirty paces he turned again and gazed his last upon her.  There she stood or rather leant, her hand resting against the wet rock, looking after him with her wide grey eyes.  Even through the drizzling rain he could see the gleam of her rich hair, the marking of her lovely face, and the carmine of her lips.  She motioned to him to go on.  He went, and when he had traversed a hundred paces looked round once more.  She was still there, but now her face was a blur, and again the great white gull hovered about her head.

Then the mist swept up and hid her.

Ah, Beatrice, with all your brains you could never learn those simple principles necessary to the happiness of woman; principles inherited through a thousand generations of savage and semi-civilized ancestresses.  To accept the situation and the master that situation brings with it—­this is the golden rule of well-being.  Not to put out the hand of your affection further than you can draw it back, this is another, at least not until you are quite sure that its object is well within your grasp.  If by misfortune, or the anger of the Fates, you are endowed with those deeper qualities, those extreme capacities of self-sacrificing affection, such as ruined your happiness, Beatrice, keep them in stock; do not expose them to the world.  The world does not believe in them; they are inconvenient and undesirable; they are even immoral.  What the world wants, and very rightly, in a person of your attractiveness is quiet domesticity of character, not the exhibition of attributes which though they might qualify you for the rank of heroine in a Greek drama, are nowadays only likely to qualify you for the reprobation of society.