Only when he had walked back to the hotel
was he capable of remembering that Irene, in taking leave, had
spoken the kindest wishes for his future, assuredly with more than
the common hostess-note. Dr. Derwent, too, had held his hand with a
pleasant grip, saying good things. It was better than nothing, and
he felt humanly grateful amid the fire that tortured him.
In his room the sight of pen, ink and paper was a sore temptation.
At Odessa he had from time to time written what he thought poetry
(it was not quite that, yet as verse not contemptible), and now,
recalling to memory some favourite lines, he asked himself whether
he might venture to write them out and send them to Miss Derwent.
Could he leave England, this time, without confessing himself to
her? Faint heart--he mused over the proverb. The thought of a
laboured letter repelled him, and perhaps her reply--if she
replied at all--would be a blow scarce endurable. In the offer of
a copy of verses there is no undue presumption; it is a consecrated
form of homage; it demands no immediate response. But were they good
enough, these rhymes of his?--He would decide to-morrow, his last
day.
And as was his habit, he read a little before sleeping, in one of
the half-dozen volumes which he had chosen for this journey. It was
_Les Chants du Crepuscule_, and thus the page sang:
"Laisse-toi donc aimer! Car l'amour, c'est la vie,
C'est tout ce qu'on regrette et tout ce qu'on envie
Quand on voit sa jeunesse au couchant decliner.
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