come--interminable nights. And now he began to watch the
clock--strained eyes riveted on the stiff gilded hands--and on the
little one jerkily, pitilessly recording the seconds and twitching them
one by one into eternity.

Nearer and nearer to midnight crept the gilded, flamboyant hour-hand;
the gaunter minute-hand was slowly but inexorably overtaking it. Nearer,
nearer, they drew together; then came the ominous click; a moment's
suspense; the high-keyed gong quivered twelve times under the impact of
the tiny steel hammer.

And he never would hear her voice again. And he dropped to his knees
asking mercy on them both.

In his dulled ears still lingered the treble ringing echo of the
bell--lingered, reiterated, repeated incessantly, until he thought he
was going mad. Then, of a sudden, he realised that the telephone was
ringing; and he reeled from his knees to his feet, and crept forward
into the shadows, feeling his way like a blind man.

"Louis?"

But he could not utter a sound.

"Louis, is it you?"

"Yes," he whispered.

"What is the matter? Are you ill? Your voice is so strange. _Are_ you?"

"No!--Is it _you_, Valerie?"

"You know it is!"

"Where--are you?"

"In my room--where I have been all day."

"You have been--_there_! You have been _here_--in the city--all this
time--"

"I came in on the morning train. I wanted to be sure. There _have_ been
such things as railroad delays you know."

"Why--_why_ didn't you let me know--"

"Louis! You will please to recollect that I had until midnight ...
I--was busy. Besides, midnight has just sounded--and here I am."

He waited.

"I received your letter." Her voice had the sweet, familiar, rising
inflection which seemed to invite an answer.

"Yes," he muttered, "I wrote to you."

"Do you wish to know what I thought of your letter?"

"Yes," he breathed.

"I will tell you some other time; not now.... Have you been perfectly
well, Louis? But I heard all about you, every day,--through Rita. Do you
know I am quite mad to see that picture you painted of her,--the new
one--'Womanhood.' She says it is a great picture--really great. Is it?"

He did not answer.

"Louis!"

"Yes."

"I would like to see that picture."

"Valerie?"

"Yes?"--sweetly impatient.

"Are we to see each other again?"

She said calmly: "I didn't ask to see _you_, Louis: I asked to see a
picture which you recently painted, called 'Womanhood.'"

He remained silent and prese