Brook Johnstone had gone to his room when he had left his father, and was hastily packing his belongings, for he had made up his mind to leave Amalfi at once without consulting anybody. It is a special advantage of places where there is no railway that one can go away at a moment’s notice, without waiting tedious hours for a train. Brook did not hesitate, for it seemed to him the only right thing to do, after Clare’s refusal, and after what his father had told him. If she had loved him, he would have stayed in spite of every opposition. If he had never been told her mother’s history, he would have stayed and would have tried to make her love him. As it was, he set his teeth and said to himself that he would suffer a good deal rather than do anything more to win the heart of Mrs. Bowring’s daughter. He would get over it somehow in the end. He fancied Clare’s horror if she should ever know the truth, and his fear of hurting her was as strong as his love. He made no phrases to himself, and he thought   of nothing theatrical which he should like to say. He just set his teeth and packed his clothes alone. Possibly he swore rather unmercifully at the coat which would not fit into the right place, and at the starched shirt-cuffs which would not lie flat until he smashed them out of shape with unsteady hands.  
When he was ready, he wrote a few words to Clare. He said that he was going away immediately, and that it would be very kind of her to let him say good-bye. He sent the note by a servant, and waited in the corridor at a distance from her door.
 
A moment later she came out, very pale.
 
“You are not really going, are you?” she asked, with wide and startled eyes. “You can’t be in earnest?”
 
“I’m all ready,” he answered, nodding slowly. “It’s much better. I only wanted to say good-bye, you know. It’s awfully kind of you to come out.”
 
“Oh—I wouldn’t have—” but she checked herself, and glanced up and down the long corridor. “We can’t talk here,” she added.
 
“It’s so hot outside,” said Brook, remembering how she had complained of the heat an hour earlier.
 
“Oh no—I mean—it’s no matter. I’d rather go out for a moment.”
 
  She began to walk towards the door while she was speaking. They reached it in silence, and went out into the blazing sun. Clare had Brook’s note still in her hand, and held it up to shield the glare from the side of her face as they crossed the platform. Then she realised that she had brought him to the very spot whereon he had said good-bye to Lady Fan. She stopped, and he stood still beside her.
 
“Not here,” she said.
 
“No—not here,” he answered.
 
“There’s too much sun—really,” said she, as the colour rose faintly in her cheeks.
 
“It’s only to say good-bye,” Brook answered sadly. “I shall always remember you just as you are now—with the sun shining on your hair.”
 
It was so bright that it dazzled him as he looked. In spite of the heat she did not move, and their eyes met.
 
“Mr. Johnstone,” Clare began, “please stay. Please don’t let me feel that I have sent you away.” There was a shade of timidity in the tone, and the eyes seemed brave enough to say something more. Brook hesitated.
 
“Well—no—it isn’t that exactly. I’ve heard something—my father has told me something since I saw you—”
 
He stopped short and looked down.
 
 
“What have you heard?” she asked. “Something dreadful about us?”
 
“About us all—about him, principally. I can’t tell you. I really can’t.&rdq............