ether he had strength to close the door on the past.
Five o'clock struck before he had finished, and, almost dropping from
fatigue, sat down at his little piano in bright daylight. The last
memory to beset him was the first of all; his honeymoon, before they came
back to live in this house, already chosen, furnished, and waiting for
them. They had spent it in Germany--the first days in Baden-baden, and
each morning had been awakened by a Chorale played down in the gardens of
the Kurhaus, a gentle, beautiful tune, to remind them that they were in
heaven. And softly, so softly that the tunes seemed to be but dreams he
began playing those old Chorales, one after another, so that the stilly
sounds floated out, through the opened window, puzzling the early birds
and cats and those few humans who were abroad as yet.....

He received the telegram from Noel in the afternoon of the same day, just
as he was about to set out for Leila's to get news of her; and close on
the top of it came Lavendie. He found the painter standing disconsolate
in front of his picture.

"Mademoiselle has deserted me?"

"I'm afraid we shall all desert you soon, monsieur."

"You are going?"

"Yes, I am leaving here. I hope to go to France."

"And mademoiselle?"

"She is at the sea with my son-in-law."

The painter ran his hands through his hair, but stopped them half-way, as
if aware that he was being guilty of ill-breeding.

"Mon dieu!" he said: "Is this not a calamity for you, monsieur le cure?"
But his sense of the calamity was so patently limited to his unfinished
picture that Pierson could not help a smile.

"Ah, monsieur!" said the painter, on whom nothing was lost. "Comme je
suis egoiste! I show my feelings; it is deplorable. My disappointment
must seem a bagatelle to you, who will be so distressed at leaving your
old home. This must be a time of great trouble. Believe me; I
understand. But to sympathise with a grief which is not shown would be
an impertinence, would it not? You English gentlefolk do not let us
share your griefs; you keep them to yourselves."

Pierson stared. "True," he said. "Quite true!"

"I am no judge of Christianity, monsieur, but for us artists the doors of
the human heart stand open, our own and others. I suppose we have no
pride--c'est tres-indelicat. Tell me, monsieur, you would not think it
worthy of you to speak to me of your troubles, would you, as I have
spoken of mine?"

Pierson bowe