ery still, with a stunned, sick feeling. Why
had she not sent him that promised note? And now he realized--though not
yet to the full--what it meant to be in love with a married woman. He
must wait in this suspense for eighteen hours at least, till he could
call, and find out what had happened to prevent her, till he could hear
from her lips that she still loved him. The chilliest of legal lovers
had access to his love, but he must possess a soul that was on fire, in
this deadly patience, for fear of doing something that might jeopardize
her. Telegraph? He dared not. Write? She would get it by the first
post; but what could he say that was not dangerous, if Cramier chanced to
see? Call? Still more impossible till three o'clock, at very earliest,
to-morrow. His gaze wandered round the studio. Were these household
gods, and all these works of his, indeed the same he had left twenty days
ago? They seemed to exist now only in so far as she might come to see
them--come and sit in such a chair, and drink out of such a cup, and let
him put this cushion for her back, and that footstool for her feet. And
so vividly could he see her lying back in that chair looking across at
him, that he could hardly believe she had never yet sat there. It was
odd how--without any resolution taken, without admission that their love
could not remain platonic, without any change in their relations, save
one humble kiss and a few whispered words--everything was changed. A
month or so ago, if he had wanted, he would have gone at once calmly to
her house. It would have seemed harmless, and quite natural. Now it was
impossible to do openly the least thing that strict convention did not
find desirable. Sooner or later they would find him stepping over
convention, and take him for what he was not--a real lover! A real
lover! He knelt down before the empty chair and stretched out his arms.
No substance--no warmth--no fragrance--nothing! Longing that passed
through air, as the wind through grass.

He went to the little round window, which overlooked the river. The last
evening of May; gloaming above the water, dusk resting in the trees, and
the air warm! Better to be out, and moving in the night, out in the ebb
and flow of things, among others whose hearts were beating, than stay in
this place that without her was so cold and meaningless.

Lamps--the passion-fruit of towns--were turning from pallor to full
orange, and the stars were c