so it went on and on that summer afternoon, in the deserted room
meant for such other things, where the two Frenchmen were too
sympathetic, and the old official too drowsy, to come. Then it all
narrowed to one fierce, insistent question:

"What is it--WHAT is it you're afraid of?"

But to that, too, he got only the one mournful answer, paralyzing in its
fateful monotony.

"I don't know--I can't tell!"

It was awful to go on thus beating against this uncanny, dark, shadowy
resistance; these unreal doubts and dreads, that by their very dumbness
were becoming real to him, too. If only she could tell him what she
feared! It could not be poverty--that was not like her--besides, he had
enough for both. It could not be loss of a social position, which was
but irksome to her! Surely it was not fear that he would cease to love
her! What was it? In God's name--what?

To-morrow--she had told him--she was to go down, alone, to the
river-house; would she not come now, this very minute, to him instead?
And they would start off--that night, back to the South where their love
had flowered. But again it was: "I can't! I don't know--I must have
time!" And yet her eyes had that brooding love-light. How COULD she
hold back and waver? But, utterly exhausted, he did not plead again; did
not even resist when she said: "You must go, now; and leave me to get
back! I will write. Perhaps--soon--I shall know." He begged for, and
took one kiss; then, passing the old official, went quickly up and out.

XV

He reached his rooms overcome by a lassitude that was not, however, quite
despair. He had made his effort, failed--but there was still within him
the unconquerable hope of the passionate lover. . . . As well try to
extinguish in full June the beating of the heart of summer; deny to the
flowers their deepening hues, or to winged life its slumbrous buzzing, as
stifle in such a lover his conviction of fulfilment. . . .

He lay down on a couch, and there stayed a long time quite still, his
forehead pressed against the wall. His will was already beginning to
recover for a fresh attempt. It was merciful that she was going away
from Cramier, going to where he had in fancy watched her feed her doves.
No laws, no fears, not even her commands could stop his fancy from
conjuring her up by day and night. He had but to close his eyes, and she
was there.

A ring at the bell, repeated several times, roused him at last to go to
the