On the driveway outside there was a crunching on the gravel of heavy wheels and an aurora-borealis of lights.

“There’s your car,” said Miss Forbes.  “I’ll go out and see you off.”

“You’re very good,” muttered Winthrop.  He could not understand.  This parting from her was the great moment in his life, and although she must know that, she seemed to be making it unnecessarily hard for him.  He had told her he was going to a place very far away, to be gone a long time, and she spoke of saying “good-by” to him as pleasantly as though it was his intention to return from Uganda for breakfast.

Instead of walking through the hall where the others were gathered, she led him out through one of the French windows upon the terrace, and along it to the steps.  When she saw the chauffeur standing by the car, she stopped.

“I thought you were going alone,” she said.

“I am,” answered Winthrop.  “It’s not Fred; that’s Sam’s chauffeur; he only brought the car around.”

The man handed Winthrop his coat and cap, and left them, and Winthrop seated himself at the wheel.  She stood above him on the top step.  In the evening gown of lace and silver she looked a part of the moonlight night.  For each of them the moment had arrived.  Like a swimmer standing on the bank gathering courage for the plunge, Miss Forbes gave a trembling, shivering sigh.

“You’re cold,” said Winthrop, gently.  “You must go in.  Good-by.”

“It isn’t that,” said the girl.  “Have you an extra coat?”

“It isn’t cold enough for——­”

“I meant for me,” stammered the girl in a frightened voice.  “I thought perhaps you would take me a little way, and bring me back.”

At first the young man did not answer, but sat staring in front of him, then, he said simply: 

“It’s awfully good of you, Beatrice.  I won’t forget it.”

It was a wonderful autumn night, moonlight, cold, clear and brilliant.  She stepped in beside him and wrapped herself in one of his great-coats.  They started swiftly down the avenue of trees.

“No, not fast,” begged the girl, “I want to talk to you.”

The car checked and rolled forward smoothly, sometimes in deep shadow, sometimes in the soft silver glamour of the moon; beneath them the fallen leaves crackled and rustled under the slow moving wheels.  At the highway Winthrop hesitated.  It lay before them arched with great and ancient elms; below, the Hudson glittered and rippled in the moonlight.

“Which way do you want to go?” said Winthrop.  His voice was very grateful, very humble.

The girl did not answer.

There was a long, long pause.

Then he turned and looked at her and saw her smiling at him with that light in her eyes that never was on land or sea.

“To Uganda,” said the girl.