of having seen or done
a certain thing before. For a moment, he could not verify it; then he
knew, just in this way, arm in arm, hand in hand, had she come towards
him with Schilsky, that very first day. It was no doubt a habit of
hers. Like this, too, she would, in all probability, walk with the one
who came after. And the picture of Herries, in the place he now
occupied, was photographed on his brain.

He withdrew his arm, as if hers had burnt him: his mind was off again
on its old round. But she, too, had to suffer for it. As he stood back
to let her pass before him, on a dry strip of the path, his eye caught
a yellow rose she was wearing at her belt. Till now he had seen it
without seeing it.

"Why are you wearing that rose?"

Louise looked down from him to the flower and back again. "Why?--you
know I like to wear flowers."

"Where did you get it?"

She foresaw what he was driving at, and did not reply.

"You were wearing a rose like that the first time I saw you. Do you
remember?"

"How should I remember? It's so long ago."

"Where had you got that one from, then?"

She repeated the same words. "How should I know now?"

"But I know. It was from him--he had given it to you."

She raised her shoulders. "Perhaps."

"Perhaps? No. For certain."

"Well, and if so--was there anything strange in that?"

They walked a few paces without speaking. Then he asked: "Who has given
you this one?"

"Maurice!" There was a note of warning in her voice. He heard it in
vain. "Give it to me, Louise."

"No--let it be. It will wither soon enough where it is."

"Please give it to me," he urged, rendered the more determined by her
refusal.

"I wish to keep it."

"And I mean to have it."

To avoid the threatening scene, she took the rose from her belt and
gave it to him. He fingered it indecisively for a moment, then threw it
over the bridge they were crossing, into the river. It struggled,
filled with muddy water, and floated away.

In the next breath, however, he asked himself ruefully what he had
gained by his action. She had given him the rose, and he had destroyed
it; but he would never know how she had come by it, and what it had
been to her.

He was incensed with himself and with her for the whole length of the
SCHLEUSSIGER WEG. Then the inevitable regret for his hastiness
followed. He took her limply hanging hand and pressed it. But there was
no responsive pressure on her part. Louise looked away from h