I had had my eyes on the ground all this while; now I looked at her,
trying to realise that I should never see her again. It was impossible.
There was that intense beauty, that shadowlessness that was like
translucence. And there was her voice. It was impossible to understand
that I was never to see her again, never to hear her voice, after this.

She was silent for a long time and I said nothing--nothing at all. It
was the thought of her making Fox's end; of her sitting as Fox had sat,
hopelessly, lifelessly, like a man waiting at the end of the world. At
last she said: "There is no hope. We have to go our ways; you yours, I
mine. And then if you will--if you cannot forget--you may remember that
I cared; that, for a moment, in between two breaths, I thought of ... of
failing. That is all I can do ... for your sake."

That silenced me. Even if I could have spoken to any purpose, I would
have held my tongue now.

I had not looked at her; but stood with my eyes averted, very conscious
of her standing before me; of her great beauty, of her great glory.

* * * * *

After a long time I went away. I never saw her again. I never saw any
one of them all again. Fox was dead and Churchill I have never had the
heart to face. That was the end of all that part of my life. It passed
away and left me only a consciousness of weakness and ... and regrets.
She remains. One recognises her hand in the trend of events. Well, it is
not a very gay world. Gurnard, they say, is the type of the age--of its
spirit. And they say that I, the Granger of Etchingham, am not on terms
with my brother-in-law.