was silent, too. When they got back to the hotel he told her rather curtly he was tired and was going to his room to wash and take a brief rest before dinner.
“But yes, my dear,” she said instantly. “Of course you should. I can see that you are tired. Perhaps,” she added quietly, “I shall see you again when you come down.”
“Of course you will,” he said shortly, almost angrily, in a tone that showed the irritable exasperation which too long association with the woman had now caused him to feel.
“Good-bye my dear. Get some rest now. You need it.”
When he got to his room he took off his coat and shoes, lay down on his bed, and instantly fell asleep. When he awoke he discovered he had slept almost three hours, that it was eight o’clock. Already late for dinner, washing and dressing hastily, he went downstairs to find no one but the proprietor’s wife in the bureau. Even before he could ask her where the Countess was, the woman had smilingly informed him that the old woman had gone, had already taken a train back to Orléans.
“Mais elle vous a remis de très affectueux adieux,” the woman said with a smile. “Elle vous a fait des grands compliments.”
And for a moment, when he realized that she was gone, he was conscious of a strange, mixed feeling of pity, loss and regret. He remembered suddenly the curt exasperation of his parting and something lonely, sad, and silent in the eyes of the old woman as she had said good-bye. The old loneliness had closed in around him again, he felt the sense of loss and sorrow that one feels when someone he has known a long time has gone.
