On the morrow ChÉrie awoke early. She could not say what had startled her out of a deep restful slumber, but suddenly she was wide awake, every nerve tense in a kind of strained expectancy, waiting she knew not for what. Something had occurred, something had awakened her; and she was waiting for it to repeat itself; waiting to hear or feel it again. But whatever it was, sound or sensation, it was not repeated.

ChÉrie rose quickly, slid her feet into her slippers, and went across the room to the window. She leaned out with her bare elbows on the window-sill and looked at the garden—at the glistening lawn, at the stripped trees, dark and clear-cut against the early sky. It was a rose-grey dawn, as softly luminous as if it were the month of February instead of November. There seemed to be a promise of spring in the pale radiance of the morning.

She knew she could not sleep any more; so she dressed quietly and quickly, wrapped a scarf round her slim shoulders, and went down into the garden.

George Whitaker also had awakened early. These were his last few days at home before leaving for the front, and his spirit was full of feverish restlessness. His sister Eva was expected back from Hastings that morning and they would spend two or three happy days together before he left for the wonderful, and awful adventure of war. He had obeyed his mother's desire, and had not seen or spoken to their Belgian guests for many days. Indeed, it was easy—too easy, thought George with a sigh—to avoid them, for they seemed day by day to grow more shy of strangers and of friends. George only caught fleeting glimpses of them as they passed their windows; sometimes he saw a gleam of auburn hair where ChÉrie sat with bent head near the schoolroom balcony, reading or at work.

This morning, as he stood vigorously plying his brushes on his bright hair and gazing absent-mindedly at the garden, he caught sight of ChÉrie, with a scarf round her shoulders and a book in her hand, walking down the gravel pathway towards the summer-house. He flung down his brushes, finished dressing very quickly, and ran downstairs. After all, he was leaving in forty-eight hours or so—leaving to go who knows where, to return who knows when. He might never have such another chance of seeing her and saying good-bye. True, it was rather soon to say good-bye. He would probably be meeting her every moment during the next two days. Eva was coming back, and would be sure to want her little foreign friend always beside her. Eva had a way of slipping her arm through ChÉrie's and drawing her along, saying: "Allons, ChÉrie!" which was very pleasant in George's recollection. He also would have liked to slip his arm through the slim white arm of the girl and say, "Allons, ChÉrie!" He could imagine the flush, or the frown, or the fleeting marvel of her smile....

In a few moments he was downstairs, out of the house, and running towards the summer-house. But she was not there.

He found her walking slowly beside the little artificial lake in the shrubbery, reading her book.

"Good-morning," he said in tones exaggerately casual, as she looked up in surprise.

"Good-morning, Monsieur George," she said, and the softness of the "g's" in her French accent was sweet to his ear.

"What are you doing, up so early?"

"Et vous?" she retorted, with her brief vivid smile.

"I ... I ... have come to say good-bye," he said.

"Good-bye? Why, I thought you were not going away until the day after tomorrow."

"Right-o," said George. "No more I am. But you know what a time I take over things; the mater always calls me a slow-coach. I—I like beginning to pack up and say good-bye days and weeks before it is time to go." Again he watched the little half-moon smile that turned up the corners of her mouth and dimpled her rounded cheek.

"Well then—good-bye," she said, looking up at him for an instant and realizing that she would be sorry when he had left.

"Good-bye." He took her book from her and held out his hand. She placed her own soft small hand in his, and he found not another word to say. So he said "Good-bye" again, and she repeated it softly.

"But now you must go away," she said. "You cannot keep on saying good-bye and staying here."

"Of course not," said George. "I'll go in a minute." Then he cleared his throat. "I wonder if you will be here when I come back. I suppose you would hate to live in England altogether, wouldn't you?"

"I don't know. I have never thought of it," said ChÉrie.

"Well—but do you like England? Or don't you?"

"S'il vous plaÎt Londres?" quoted ChÉrie, glancing up at him and laughing. Surely, thought George, no other eyelashes in the world gave such a starry look to two such sea-blue eyes.

"In some ways I do not like England," she remarked, thoughtfully. "I do not like—I mean I do not understand the English women. They seem so—how shall I say?—so hard ... so arid...." She plucked a little branch from a bush of winter-berries and toyed with it absently as she walked beside him. "They all seem afraid of appearing too friendly or too kind."

"Perhaps so," said George.

"When we first came here your sister warned me about it. She said, 'You must never show an English woman that you like her; it is not customary, and would be misunderstood.'"

"That's so. We don't approve of gush," said George.

"If you call nice things by horrid names they become horrid things," said ChÉrie sternly and sententiously. "Natural impulses of friendliness are not 'gush.' When I first meet strangers I always feel that I like them; and I go on liking them until I find out that they are not nice."

"You go the wrong way round," said George. "In England we always dislike people until we know they are all right. Besides, if you were to start by being sweet and amiable to strangers, they would probably think you wanted to borrow money from them, or ask them favours."

"How mean-minded!" exclaimed ChÉrie.

George laughed. "You should see the mater," he said, "how villainously rude she is to people she meets for the first time. That is what makes her such a social success."

ChÉrie looked bewildered. George was silent a moment; then he spoke again.

"And what do you think about the English men? Do you dislike them too?"

"I don't really know them," said ChÉrie; "but they—they look very nice," and she turned her blue eyes full upon him, taking a quick survey of his handsome figure and fair, frank face.

George felt himself blush, and hated himself for it.

"You—you would never think of marrying an Englishman, would you?"

ChÉrie shook her head, and the long lashes drooped over the sea-blue stars. "I am affianced to be married," she said with her pretty foreign accent, "to a soldier of Belgium."

"Oh, I see," said George rather huskily and hurriedly. "Of course. Quite so."

They walked along in silence for a little while. Then he opened her book, which he still held in his hand. "What were you reading? Poetry?"

He glanced at the fly-leaf, on which were written the words "Florian Audet, À ChÉrie," and he quickly turned the page. "Poetry" ... he said again, "by Victor Hugo." Then he added, "Why, this sounds as if it were written for you: 'Elle Était pÂle et pourtant rose....' That is just what you are."

ChÉrie did not answer. What was this strange flutter at her heart again? It frightened her. Could it be angina pectoris, or some other strange and terrible disease? Not that it hurt her; but it thrilled her from head to foot.

"You are quite pÂle et pourtant rose at this very moment," repeated George, looking at her. Then he added rather bitterly as he handed her back the book, "I suppose you are thinking of the day when you will marry your soldier-lover."

"Perhaps I shall not live to marry anybody," said ChÉrie in a low voice.

"What an idea!" exclaimed George.

"And as for him," she continued, "he will probably be killed long before that."

"Oh no," said George, "I'm sure he won't. And I'm sure you will.... And I'm sure you're both going to be awfully happy. As for me," he added quickly, "I am going to have no end of a good time. I believe I am to be sent to the Dardanelles. Doesn't the word sound jolly! 'The Dardanelles!' It has a ring and a lilt to it...." He laughed and pushed his hair back from his clear young forehead.

"Good luck to you," said ChÉrie, looking up at him with a sudden feeling of kindness and regret.

They had turned back, and were now passing the summer-house in full view of the windows of the house. On the schoolroom balcony they saw Louise. She beckoned, and ChÉrie hurried forward and stood under the balcony, looking up at her.

"Oh, ChÉrie! I wondered where you were," said Louise, bending over the ledge. "I was anxious. Come up, dear! I want to speak to you."

"Oh yes!" exclaimed ChÉrie eagerly, remembering Louise's promise of the night before. Then she turned to George. "I must go. So now we must really say good-bye." She laughed. "Or shall we say au revoir?"

"Let us say au revoir," said George, looking her full in the face.

"Au revoir, Monsieur George! Au revoir!"

Then she went indoors.

Two days later George Whitaker went away.

They sent him to the Dardanelles.

And in this world there was never an au revoir for Monsieur George.