When they were at the station for his departure, it so happened that no one had come with them.
As the porter warned them that the train was about to move, they shook hands and hesitated, blushing and conscious of themselves and of spectators, "Good-by," stammered Dory, with a dash at her cheek.
"Good-by," she murmured, making her effort at the same instant.
The result was a confusion of features and hat brims that threw them into a panic, then into laughter, and so made the second attempt easy and successful.

It was a real meeting of the lips.

His arm went round her, her hand pressed tenderly on his shoulder, and he felt a trembling in her form, saw a sudden gleam of light leap into and from her eyes.
And all in that flash the secret of his mistake in managing his love affair burst upon him.
"Good-by, Dory--dear," she was murmuring, a note in her voice like the shy answer of a hermit thrush to the call of her mate.
"All aboard!" shouted the conductor, and the wheels began to move.
"Good-by--good-by," he stammered, his blood surging through his head.
It came into her mind to say, "I care for you more than I knew." But his friend the conductor was thrusting him up the steps of the car.

"I wish I had said it," thought she, watching the train disappear round the curve.
"I'll write it." But she did not.

When the time came to write, that idea somehow would not fit in with the other things she was setting down.