In less than a week now she would be gone.
He would see the last of her.

Then what?
He pictured himself--when he had said good-by to her and the train had lessened to a smoky blur in the distance--facing about, facing the life that must then begin for him, returning to the city alone, picking up the routine again.

There would be nothing to look forward to then; he would not see Blix in the afternoon; would not sit with her in the evening in the little dining-room of the flat overlooking the city and the bay; would not wake in the morning with the consciousness that before the sun would set he would see her again, be with her, and hear the sound of her voice.

The months that were to follow would be one long ache, one long, harsh, colorless grind without her.

How was he to get through that first evening that he must pass alone?
And she did not care for him.