"Everything is purple--if Jack paints it so," said Sweetheart, smiling
at her reflected face in the water. She stood at the rim of the little
stone fountain with her hands clasped behind her back. Elliott and
Clifford were poking about in the water plants to dislodge the solitary
goldfish, while Rowden gathered dewy clusters of lilacs as an offering. "There he goes!" said Elliott. "Poor fellow, living there all alone!" said Sweetheart. "Jack must
leave word with Joseph to get him a little lady fish to pay his court
to." "Better put in another gentleman fish, then, if you're following
Nature," said Clifford, with an attempt at cynicism which drew the
merriest laugh from Sweetheart. "Oh, how funny is Monsieur Clifford when he wants to be like
Frenchmen!" she murmured. "Jack," said Elliott, as I came from the studio and picked up a cup of
tea grown cold, "Clifford's doing the world-worn disenchanted roué." "And--and I fear he will next make love to me!" cried Sweetheart. "You'd better look out, Jack," said Clifford darkly, and pretended to
sulk until Sweetheart sent him off to buy the bonbons she would need
for the train. "They're packed," I said, "every trunk of them!" Sweetheart was enchanted. "All my new gowns, and the shoes
from Rix's--O Jack, you didn't forget the shoes--and the bath
robes--and----"

"All packed," I said, swallowing the tea with a wry face. "Oh," she cried reproachfully, "don't drink that! Here, I will have
some hot tea in a moment," and she ran over and perched on the arm of
the garden bench while I lighted the alcohol lamp and then a cigarette. Rowden came up with his offering of lilacs, and she decorated each of
us with a spray. It was growing late. The long shadows fell across the gravel walks and
flecked the white walls of the sculptor's studio opposite. "It's the nine-o'clock train, isn't it?" said Elliott. "We will meet you at the station at eight-thirty," added Rowden. "You don't mind, do you, our dining alone?" said Sweetheart shyly;
"it's our last day--Jack's and mine--in the old studio." "Not the last, I hope," said Elliott sincerely. We all sat silent for a moment. "O Paris, Paris--how I fear it!" murmured Sweetheart to me; and in the
same breath, "No, no, we must love it, you and I." Then Elliott said aloud, "I suppose you have no idea when you will
return?" "No," I replied, thinking of the magic second that had become a year. And so we dined alone, Sweetheart and I, in the old studio. At half-past eight o'clock the cab stood at the gate with all our traps
piled on top, and Joseph and his wife and the two brats were crying,
"Au revoir, madame! au revoir, monsieur! We will keep the studio well
dusted. Bon voyage! bon voyage!" and all of a sudden my arm was caught
by Sweetheart's little gloved hand, and she drew me back through
the long ivy-covered alley to the garden where the studio stood, its
doorway closed and silent, the hollow windows black and grim. Truly the
light had passed away with the passing of Sweetheart. Her hand slipped
from my arm, and she went and knelt down at the threshold and kissed
it. "I first knew happiness when I first crossed it," she said; "it breaks
my heart to leave it. Only that magic second! but it seems years that
we have lived here." "It was you who brought happiness to it," I said. "Good-bye! good-bye, dear, dear, old studio!" she cried. "Oh, if Jack
is always the same to me as he has been here--if he will be faithful
and true in that new home!" The new home was to be in a strange land. Sweetheart was a little
frightened, but was dying to go there. Sweetheart had never seen the
golden gorse ablaze on the moors of Morbihan. VI. I went inside the brass railing and waited my turn to buy the tickets. When it came, I took two first class to Quimperlé, for it was to be
an all-night ride, and there was no sleeping car. Clifford had taken
charge of the baggage, and I went with him to have it registered,
leaving Sweetheart with Elliott and Rowden. All the traps were
there--the big trunks, the big valises, my sketching kit, the zitherine
in a leather case, two handbags, a bundle of umbrellas and canes, and a
huge package of canvases. The toilet case and the rugs and waterproofs
we took with us into the compartment. The compartment was empty. Sweetheart nestled into one corner, and
when I had placed our traps in the racks overhead I sat down opposite,
while Clifford handed in our sandwiches, a bottle of red wine, and
Sweetheart's box of bonbons. We didn't say much; most had been said before starting. Clifford was
more affected than he cared to show--I know by the way he grasped my
hand. They are dear fellows, every one. We did not realize that we were
actually going--going, perhaps, forever. She laughed, and chatted, and
made fun of Clifford, and teased Rowden, aided and abetted by Elliott,
until the starting gong clanged and a warning whistle sounded along the
gaslit platform. "Jack," cried Clifford, leaning in the window, "God bless you! God
bless you both!" Elliott touched her hand and wrung mine, and Rowden risked his neck to
give us both one last cordial grasp. "Count on me--on us," cried Clifford, speaking in English, "if you
are--troubled!" By what, my poor Clifford? Can you, with all your gay courage, turn
back the hands of the dials? Can you, with all your warm devotion, add
one second to the magic second and make it two? The shadows we cast are
white. The train stole out into the night, and I saw them grouped on the
platform, silhouettes in the glare of the yellow signals. I drew in my
head and shut the window. Sweetheart's face had grown very serious, but
now she smiled across from her corner. "Aren't you coming over by me, Jack?" VII. We must have been moving very swiftly, for the car rocked and trembled,
and it was probably that which awoke me. I looked across at Sweetheart. She was lying on her side, one cheek resting on her gloved hand, her
travelling cap pushed back, her eyes shut. I smoothed away the curly
strands of hair which straggled across her cheeks, and tucked another
rug well about her feet. Her feet were small as a child's. I speak as
if she were not a child. She was eighteen then. The next time I awoke we lay in a long gaslit station. Some soldiers
were disembarking from the forward carriages, and a gendarme stalked up
and down the platform. I looked sleepily about for the name of the station. It was painted
in blue over the buffet--"Petit St. Yves." "Is it possible we are in
Brittany?" I thought. Then the voices of the station hands, who were
hoisting a small boat upon the forward carriage, settled my doubts. "Allons! tire hardiment, Jean Louis! mets le cannotte deboutte." "Arrête toi Yves! doucement! doucement! Sacrée garce!" Somewhere in the darkness a mellow bell tolled. I settled back to
slumber, my eyes on Sweetheart. She slept. VIII. I awoke in a flood of brightest sunshine.