of first light, health, and joy, and day beginning.
When they left the bistro full light had come, and they at length had fallen silent. They realized that it was useless, hopeless, and impossible, that nothing could be said.
He left her at the gate outside the studio. She pressed the bell, the gate swung open, and for a moment before she left him she stood looking at him with a flushed, angry face, wet angry eyes—a look of dumb, sullen misery that tore at his heart, and for which he had no word.
“Good-bye,” she said, “if I don’t see you again—” She paused and clenched her fists together at her side, closed her eyes, tears spurted out, and in a choking voice she cried out:
“Oh, this will be a fine thing for me all right! This trip has just been wonderful. God! I’m sorry that I ever saw any of you—”
“Ann! Ann!”
“If you need money—if you’re broke—”
“Ann!”
“God!” she cried again. “Why did I ever come?”
She was weeping bitterly, and with a blind, infuriated movement she rushed through the gate and slammed it behind her. He never saw her again.
