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“I do not see,” she said slowly, “that we have anything to share—you and I. A year ago, perhaps, there might have been something. But, as you said just now, the past is dead. And since we have nothing to share, René, it would be so much better if ... if ...”

She hesitated and passed a hand across her eyes.

René Dudoy stared.

“But what are you saying?” he cried. “You go back to where we began. We have thrashed all this out. You said our hours were not golden. I have shown you——”

“You have shown me that it is better, René, that we two should not meet any more.”

“Not alone, perhaps. I think you are right, sweetheart. I will arrange that somehow. Now that we have our understanding——”

“I wish,” said Madeleine steadily, “that you would leave Paris.”

The other recoiled.

“What!” he screamed. “What! Leave Paris? Mon Dieu! This is more than I can stand.” He leaned back in his chair and wiped the sweat from his face. “I think you are ill,” he said. “To hear you, anyone would think that you did not care,” he added desperately.