t night.'

'Don't tell me I struck you?' he cried.

'Oh no!' and I laughed. 'Can't you guess what I mean?'

'You mean I got vilely drunk.'

I nodded.

'Magda,' he burst out passionately, seeming at this point fully to arouse
himself, to resume acutely his consciousness, 'why were you late? You
said four o'clock. I thought you had deceived me. I thought I had
disgusted you, and that you didn't mean to return. I waited more than an
hour and a quarter, and then I went out in despair.'

'But I came just afterwards,' I protested. 'You had only to wait a few
more minutes. Surely you could have waited a few more minutes?'

'You said four o'clock,' he repeated obstinately.

'It was barely half-past five when I came,' I said.

'I had meant never to drink again,' he went on.

'You were so kind to me. But then, when you didn't come--'

'You doubted me, Diaz. You ought to have been sure of me.'

'I was wrong.'

'No, no!' I said. 'It was I who was wrong. But I never thought that an
hour and a half would make any difference.'

There was a pause.

'Ah, Magda, Magda!'--he suddenly began to weep; it was
astounding--'remember that you had deserted me once before. Remember
that. If you had not done that, my life might have been different. It
_would_ have been different.'

'Don't say so,' I pleaded.

'Yes, I must say so. You cannot imagine how solitary my life has been.
Magda, I loved you.'

And I too wept.

His accent was sincerity itself. I saw the young girl hurrying secretly
out of the Five Towns Hotel. Could it be true that she had carried away
with her, unknowing, the heart of Diaz? Could it be true that her panic
flight had ruined a career? The faint possibility that it was true made
me sick with vain grief.

'And now I am old and forgotten and disgraced,' he said.

'How old are you, Diaz?'

'Thirty-six,' he answered.

'Why,' I said, 'you have thirty years to live.'

'Yes; and what years?'

'Famous years. Brilliant years.'

He shook his head.

'I am done for--' he murmured, and his head sank.

'Are you so weak, then?' I took his hand. 'Are you so weak? Look at me.'

He obeyed, and his wet eyes met mine. In that precious moment I lived.

'I don't know,' he said.

'You could not have looked at me if you had not been strong, very
strong,' I said firmly. 'You told me once that you had a house near
Fontainebleau. Have you still got it?'

'I suppose so.'

'Let us go there, and--and--see.'

'B