does that make?” She had never shared his fears about their ages, and she looked at him angrily now, her hurt at his going making her resentful toward him, especially now. “What you're saying is that you don't love me.”
“I'm saying that I love you too much to burden you with an old man. I'm forty-six years old and you're nineteen. That's not fair to you. You deserve someone young and alive, and after everything settles down here, you'll find someone else to love. You've never had a chance. You were a child when you left Russia two years ago, you'd been protected there, and you came here, during the war, with barely more than the clothes on your back. One day, life will be normal again, and you'll meet someone more your age. Zoya,” he sounded suddenly firm and almost like Konstantin, “it would be wrong to take you to New York. It would be selfish on my part. I'm thinking of you now, not myself.” But she didn't understand that as she glared at him and tears sprang to her eyes.
“It was all a game for you, wasn't it?” She was being cruel but she wanted to be. She wanted to hurt him as much as he was hurting her. “That's all it was. A wartime romance. A little ballerina to play with while you were in Paris.”
He wanted to slap her but he restrained himself. “Listen to me. It was never like that. Don't be a fool, Zoya. I'm more than twice your age. You deserve better than that.”
“Ahh … I see,” the green eyes flashed, “like the happy life I have here. I've waited out half of this war for you, barely breathing for fear you'd be killed, and now you get on a ship and go back to New York. It's easy for you, isn't it?”
“No, it's not.” He turned so she wouldn't see the tears in his eyes. Maybe it was better this way. Maybe it was better if she was angry at him. She wouldn't pine for him when he was gone, as he would for her. “I love you very much.” He turned to face her quietly, as she strode purposefully to the door and yanked it open.
“Get out.” He looked stunned. “Why wait two more days? Why not just end it now?”
“I'd like to say good-bye to your grandmother.”
“She's asleep, and I doubt if she'd want to say goodbye to you. She never liked you anyway.” She just wanted him to leave, so she could cry her heart out in peace.
“Zoya, please …” He wanted to take her in his arms again, but he knew it wasn't fair. It was better to let her feel she had ended it, to leave her with some pride. Better if he was the one with a broken heart. He hated himself as he walked slowly down the stairs, the sound of the door slamming behind him ringing in his ears. Hated himself for getting involved with her. He had always known she would get hurt, he just hadn't realized that it would hurt him as much. But he was certain he was doing the right thing. There was no turning back. He was too old for her, and even if it hurt her now, she was better off free of him, to find a man her own age, and make a new life for herself. He had a heavy heart for the next two days, and the day before he left, he got a bank draft for five thousand dollars. He enclosed it in a letter to her grandmother, begging her to keep it, and to let him know if there was anything he could do for them later on. He assured her that he would always be their friend, and that he would love her granddaughter for the rest of his life.
“I have done this for her good, I can promise you that. And because I also suspect that it is what you want as well. She is younger than I. She will fall in love again. I am certain of it. And now, I bid you both adieu with a saddened, but loving heart.” He had signed it and had it delivered the morning he left by a corporal on General Pershing's staff.
He left on the morning that President and Mrs. Wilson arrived. There was a parade on the Champs-Élysées for them as he steamed slowly out of Le Havre thinking of