138 The Light That Failed He discovered that the notion would not come to order, and that he could not free his mind for an hour from the thought of Maisie’s departure. He took very small interest in her rough studies for the Melancholia when she showed them next week. The Sundays were racing past, and the time was at hand when all the church bells in London could not ring Maisie back to him. Once or twice he said something to Binkie about “hermaphroditic futilities,” but the little dog received so many confidences both from Torpenhow and Dick that he did not trouble his tulip-ears to listen. Dick was permitted to see the girls off. They were going by the Dover night-boat; and they hoped to return in August. It was then February, and Dick felt that he was being hardly used. Maisie was so busy stripping the small house across the Park, and packing her canvases, that she had not time for thought. Dick went down to Dover and wasted a day there fretting over a wonderful possibility. Would Maisie at the very last allow him one small kiss? He reflected that he might capture her by the strong arm, as he had seem women captured in the Southern Sudan, and lead her away; but Maisie would never be led. She would turn her gray eyes upon him and say, “Dick, how selfish you are!” Then his courage would fail him. It would be better, after all, to beg for that kiss. Maisie looked more than usually kissable as she stepped from the night-mail on to the windy pier, in a gray waterproof and a little gray cloth traveling-cap. The red-haired girl was not so lovely. Her green eyes were hollow and her lips were dry. Dick saw the trunks aboard, and went to Maisie’s side in the darkness under the bridge. The mail-bags were thundering into the forehold, and the red-haired girl was watching them. “You'll have a rough passage tonight,” said Dick. “It’s blowing outside. I suppose I may come over and see