She stood up in a sudden impulse of terror. Escape!
She must escape! Frank would save her. He
would give her life, perhaps love, too. But she
wanted to live. Why should she be unhappy?
She had a right to happiness. Frank would take
her in his arms, fold her in his arms. He would
save her.
She stood among the swaying crowd in the station at
the North Wall. He held her hand and she knew
that he was speaking to her, saying something about
the passage over and over again. The station
was full of soldiers with brown baggages. Through
the wide doors of the sheds she caught a glimpse of
the black mass of the boat, lying in beside the quay
wall, with illumined portholes. She answered
nothing. She felt her cheek pale and cold and,
out of a maze of distress, she prayed to God to direct
her, to show her what was her duty. The boat
blew a long mournful whistle into the mist. If
she went, tomorrow she would be on the sea with Frank,
steaming towards Buenos Ayres. Their passage had
been booked. Could she still draw back after
all he had done for her? Her distress awoke a
nausea in her body and she kept moving her lips in
silent fervent prayer.
A bell clanged upon her heart. She felt him seize
her hand:
“Come!”
All the seas of the world tumbled about her heart.
He was drawing her into them: he would drown
her. She gripped with both hands at the iron
railing.
“Come!”
No! No! No! It was impossible.
Her hands clutched the iron in frenzy. Amid the
seas she sent a cry of anguish.
“Eveline! Evvy!”
He rushed beyond the barrier and called to her to
follow. He was shouted at to go on but he still
called to her. She set her white face to him,
passive, like a helpless animal. Her eyes gave
him no sign of love or farewell or recognition.
AFTER THE RACE
The cars came scudding in towards Dublin, running
evenly like pellets in the groove of the Naas Road.
At the crest of the hill at Inchicore sightseers had
gathered in clumps to watch the cars careering homeward
and through this channel of poverty and inaction the
Continent sped its wealth and industry. Now and
again the clumps of people raised the cheer of the
gratefully oppressed. Their sympathy, however,
was for the blue cars—the cars of their
friends, the French.
The French, moreover, were virtual victors. Their
team had finished solidly; they had been placed second
and third and the driver of the winning German car
was reported a Belgian. Each blue car, therefore,
received a double measure of welcome as it topped
the crest of the hill and each cheer of welcome was
acknowledged with smiles and nods by those in the car.
In one of these trimly built cars was a party of four
young men whose spirits seemed to be at present well
above the level of successful Gallicism: in fact,
these four young men were almost hilarious. They
