Do you?"
I have said they had reached a very definite stage--nay, more, a very
critical stage. Amory had stayed over a day to see her, and his train
left at twelve-eighteen that night. His trunk and suitcase awaited him
at the station; his watch was beginning to hang heavy in his pocket.
"Isabelle," he said suddenly, "I want to tell you something." They had
been talking lightly about "that funny look in her eyes," and Isabelle
knew from the change in his manner what was coming--indeed, she had been
wondering how soon it would come. Amory reached above their heads and
turned out the electric light, so that they were in the dark, except for
the red glow that fell through the door from the reading-room lamps.
Then he began:
"I don't know whether or not you know what you--what I'm going to say.
Lordy, Isabelle--this _sounds_ like a line, but it isn't."
"I know," said Isabelle softly.
"Maybe we'll never meet again like this--I have darned hard luck
sometimes." He was leaning away from her on the other arm of the lounge,
but she could see his eyes plainly in the dark.
"You'll meet me again--silly.
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