He started to turn away. As he turned, he stooped a little. He hesitated and looked back at Kantele. "I don't suppose. . . . No," he said, interrupting himself. He straightened up once again, so straight the cane merely brushed the surface of the rug underfoot. He threw back his shoulders and for a moment towered in the room, as if he were young again.
"It's been an education," he said, and saluted Paul with the cane. Turning, he strode out. Behind his back, Kantele made a little gesture after him with her hands, and then let her hands and gaze drop. She stood, her head bent, her eyes on the carpet at her feet, like a maiden, captive to the stranger's bow and spear.
Paul looked at her.
"You love him," he said.
"Always. Very much," she said, almost inaudibly, not looking up.
"Then you're a fool to stay," he said.
She did not answer that. But after a moment she spoke again, uncertainly, her gaze still on the carpet.
"You could be mistaken," she said.
"No," said Paul; and she did not see the centuries-old pain that came into his eyes as he said it. "I never make mistakes."