"I know you only as a barmaid; why, not?"
She never moved to go away. There was no alarm in her eyes, though
they narrowed.
"You would never forgive yourself, would you?"
I thought for a moment. "No, Gretchen, I should never forgive myself.
But I know that if I ask you to let me kiss your hand before I go, you
will grant so small a favor."
"There," and her hand stretched toward me. "And what will your kiss
mean?"
"That I love you, but also respect you, and that I shall go."
"I am sorry."
It was dismal packing. I swore a good deal, softly. Gretchen was not
in the dining-room when I came down to supper. It was just as well. I
wanted to be cool and collected when I made my final adieu. After
supper I lit my pipe (I shall be buried with it!) and went for a jaunt
up the road. There was a train at six the next morning. I would leave
on that. Why hadn't I taken Gretchen in my arms and kissed her? It
would have been something to remember in the days to come. I was a
man, and stronger; she would have been powerless. Perhaps it was the
color of her eyes.
I had not gone up the highway more than 100 yards when I saw the lonely
figure of a man tramping indirectly toward me and directly toward the
inn.
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