“You don’t answer,” she said hopelessly, and put both hands to her throbbing temples. “I can’t hear you. You won’t help me. What shall I do?”

Aunt Effie’s voice, too bright, too brisk, too firmly implying that all was right with the world, floated up the stairs.

“Sabrina! We’re waiting!”

“What shall I do?” she said again, between her hands.

There was no answer he could give but silence. He withdrew backwards to the window seat, moving with infinite care, and sat down there remotely, striving now to eradicate himself from her consciousness after that one moment’s reckless contact. He had done all he could, he did not dare do more. There were no short cuts, he had shown her that. If he did not answer, did not stir, perhaps she would resign herself to the lack of communication between them and go quickly now, relieving the strain their parting put upon her. She was young, and had not learned fatalism. The very young never can. But the sooner she realized that there is a point beyond which it is no good resisting the trend of events, the easier it would be for her.

And so he deserted her utterly, for her own good, and she felt his going, and gazed about her a moment longer forlornly. She went to the desk and picked up his little brown pipe with caressing fingers.

“Could I take this with me?” she asked, and waited hopelessly for his reply. “Hilary—please?”

But he sat very still on the window seat, cutting himself off from her deliberately. It was best for her not to take anything with her which would bind her to him in any way. She must have every chance now, for the usual sort of life, without him. She must be free, to forget him and their strange companionship if she could.

Aunt Effie called again, from the foot of the stairs.

“Sabrina! Your father’s in a hurry!”

With a sigh, she replaced the pipe on the desk and left the room empty-handed, drooping, numbed with despair.

A docile automaton, she collected her hat and coat and bag at Aunt Effie’s bidding and went down to where the car was waiting outside the front door. Bareheaded, with her coat over her arm, she climbed obediently into the rumble seat with the suitcases, heard Aunt Effie making bright farewells to Mrs. Pilton, heard minute directions given by her father regarding the dispatch of his luggage to the lodgings in Wells, heard her own voice asking Mrs. Pilton to please be kind to Muffin.

The car started with a jerk. She did not look back at Hilary’s windows, but sat stolidly clutching her hat and coat and staring straight ahead as they rolled down the drive.