"
She looked into my face, and there was wonder in her eyes.
"How you have changed, Jim," she whispered. "It is you, isn't it? I can
scarcely believe it. Can the months really write their lines so deeply?"
"Months!" I answered. "I have passed into a different generation, Adele.
It seems to me that my memory stops at a night a few months ago, at the
Hotel Francais. The things which happened before that seem to have
happened to a different man."
"Could you play cricket now--or shoot partridges?"
"God knows!" I answered. "This thing has swallowed me up. The only thing
that I do know is that I must go on to the end."
She sighed.
"And what is to become of me?" she asked.
I touched her lips with mine--and all the passion and joy of another sort
of life warmed my blood once more.
"Wait only a few months, dear," I answered confidently, "and I will teach
you."
Hope and incredulity struggled together in her face.
"You believe," she exclaimed, "that you will succeed?"
"Why not?" I answered. "I am counted dead. Could you yourself recognize
me?"
She shook her head doubtfully.
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