And now what? wondered Bond. He shrugged his shoulders to shift the pain of failure-the pain of failure that is so much greater than the pleasure of success. The exit line. He must get out of these two young lives and take his cold heart elsewhere. There must be no regrets. No false sentiment. He must play the role which she expected of him. The tough man of the world. The Secret Agent. The man who was only a silhouette.
She was looking at him rather nervously, waiting to ‘be relieved of the stranger who had tried to get his foot in the door of her heart.
Bond smiled warmly at her. “I’m jealous,” he said. “I had other plans for you tomorrow night.”
She smiled back at him, grateful that the silence had been broken. “What were they?” she asked.
“I was going to take you off to a farmhouse in France,” he said. “And after a wonderful dinner I was going to see if it’s true what they say about the scream of a rose.”
She laughed. “I’m sorry I can’t oblige. But there are plenty of others waiting to be picked.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Bond. “Well, goodbye, Gala.” He held out his hand.
“Goodbye, James.”
He touched her for the last time and then they turned away from each other and walked off into their different lives.