Clinton folded the two sheets of paper and put them in his hip pocket. He knew she was upstairs packing her suitcase, and he wanted to go up and stop her. But their voices might awaken Annabel. He decided to wait for her on the front porch. He turned on the light over the door. She would first see the light, and then him, and his presence would not startle her. He sat on the front steps, clearly visible from the door, and waited.

In a moment, Clinton heard her footsteps on the stairway, and then she was at the door.

“Echo?”

“Yes, honey. It’s me. Did I wake you up?”

“No. I was awake anyway.”

He got up and opened the door. He held out his hand, and she let him carry the suitcase.

“I guess you wonder what I’m doin’,” she said, “sneak-in’ out like this.” Echo’s voice and manner were subdued without being solemn or sad. There was no sign that she had been weeping. It seemed to Clinton that her calm had been achieved by an act of will that commanded respect. All of the things he had wanted to say to her froze inside him.

“Do you have to go?” he said.

“I have to, Clint. I have to go.”

He had meant to embrace her, to express his love for her, to offer his help. He had imagined that he would take her in his arms, hold her close to him; and she would weep on his shoulder and empty her heart to him. But now he could not even look at her. Her self-possession so dum-founded him that he could only walk down the path at her side, carrying her suitcase. Echo had become a royal figure, exalted by her own anguish. Clinton’s love for her made him proud to be her fool, and with the fool’s wisdom he was silent.

“Will you tell Annabel not to worry?” Echo said. “I’ll call her up tomorrow.”

He put the suitcase in the back seat of the car.

“I’ll tell her,” he said.

He opened the door for her, at the driver’s side, and Echo climbed in. Clinton stood next to the car as she started the motor.

“Maybe you better roll up the windows,” he said. “There’s no stars out or anything.”

“I love to drive in the rain,” Echo said. “I just love it. —Have you got a light, handsome?”

He took a book of matches from his pocket and struck one of them, holding it in a special way that guarded the flame from the wind. She inhaled deeply and looked at him, and as the smoke rose from her face she said:

“You want to kiss me g’bye, lover?”

“You’re comin’ back, aren’t you?”