The professor lifted the bundle of letters and
the photograph, and placed them in the fire-place as carefully as if
they had been burnt-offerings. Well, they were--to a dead Romance. The
charred paper crumbled where he had laid the letters--a few black
pieces floated drunkenly up the chimney. The fire had gone out long
before. The professor fumbled in his pocket for a match. When he had
found it he struck it on the brick hearth, but his hand trembled so
that it burnt his fingers and he dropped it. He lit another,
carefully, deliberately, and held it to the pile of papers. They
caught, the edges blackened and curled; finally the whole mass blazed
viciously. The photograph had fallen to one side and remained unburnt.
He stooped over and placed it on top of the blazing papers; then it,
too, burned.
A light flared from the gas jet, and the professor looked up. Jane
stood there in her black travelling dress. Her eyes were red with
tears.
"Good-bye, professor," she said. "I thought you wouldn't mind if ..."
She hesitated. The professor thought she looked rather pitiful and
thin and tired.
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