tifle the waves of almost
physical repugnance that passed through her, making it impossible for
her to bear even the touch of his hand. In the train, she leaned back
in the corner, and, shutting her eyes, pretended to be asleep.

They took a droschke home; the driver whipped up his horse; the
landlady was called in to make the first fire of the season. Louise
went to bed at once. She wanted nothing, she said, but to lie still in
the darkened room. He should go away; she preferred to be alone. No,
she was not ill, only tired, but so tired that she could not keep her
eyes open. She needed rest: tomorrow she would be all right again. He
should please, please, leave her, and go away. And, turning her face to
the wall, she drew the bedclothes over her head.

At his wits' end to know what it all meant, Maurice complied. But at
home in his room, he could settle to nothing; he trembled at every
footstep on the stair. No message came, however, and when he had seen
her again that evening, he felt more reassured.

"It's nothing--really nothing. I'm only tired ... yes, it was too much.
Just let me be, Maurice--till to-morrow." And she shut her eyes again,
and kept them shut, till she heard the door close behind him.

He was reassured, but still, for the greater part of the night, he lay
sleepless. He was always agitated anew by the abrupt way in which
Louise passed from mood to mood; but this was something different; he
could not understand it. In the morning, however, he saw things in a
less tragic light; and, on sitting down to the piano, he experienced
almost a sense of satisfaction at the prospect of an undisturbed day's
work.

Meanwhile Louise shrank, even in memory, from the feverish weeks just
past, as she had shrunk that day from his touch. And she struggled to
keep her thoughts from dwelling on them. But it was the first time in
her life that she felt a like shame and regret; and she could not rid
her mind of the haunting images. She knew the reason, too; darkness
brought the knowledge. She had believed, had wished to believe, that
the failure was her fault, a result of her unstable nature; whereas the
whole undertaking had been merely a futile attempt to bolster up the
impossible, to stave off the inevitable, to postpone the end. And it
had all been in vain. The end! It would come, as surely as day followed
night--had perhaps indeed already come; for how else could the nervous
aversion be explained, which had seized