Page:Middle Aged Love Stories (IA middleagedlove00bacorich).djvu/190

 him now. His carriage was at the door; then would come the train, then the noisy seaport city, then the wonderful great boat—he would be half the world away. Their hearts were too full for speech. This old Frenchman with his jaunty air, his shining boots, his mended gloves, this quiet, middle-aged woman with the pale, lined face, were not romantic to look upon; but one was struggling with a passionate gratitude that choked him, and the other was sending away from her—perhaps forever—the love and youth and brightness of her life.

The driver called; they loosed hands. He walked silently down the steps, but with an inarticulate cry she summoned him back. She put her arms around him, as about a child she would send away to school, and laid her cheek softly against his. He caught in her eyes what sent his hand to his heart.

"Mlle. Sabine! What is it you have