He talked, talked; trying to disguise his feebleness in tinsel phrases; and Monica still kept her eyes cast down.
When another half-hour had passed, she sighed deeply and rose from her seat.

She would write to him, she said, and let him know where a reply would reach her.

No, she must not come here again; all he had to tell her would be communicated by letter.

The subdued tone, the simple sadness of her words, distressed Bevis, and yet he secretly congratulated himself.

He had done nothing for which this woman could justly reproach him; marvellous--so he considered--had been his self-restraint; absolutely, he had behaved 'like a gentleman.' To be sure, he was miserably in love, and, if circumstances by any means allowed of it, would send for Monica to join him in France.