e scarf was lying on the table;
Louise twisted it mechanically round her head, and began to struggle
with an evening cloak. Just as she had succeeded in getting it over her
shoulders, Maurice took her by the arms and bent her backwards, so that
the cloak fell to the floor.

"You shall not go!"

She stemmed her hands against him, and determinedly, yet with caution,
pushed herself free.

"My dress--my hair! How dare you!"

"What do I care for your dress or your hair? You make me mad!"

"And what do I care whether you're mad or not? Take your hands away!"

"Louise! ... for God's sake! ... not with that man. At least, not with
him. He has said infamous things of you. I never told you--yes, I heard
him say--heard him compare you with ... soiled goods he called
you.--Louise! Louise!"

"Have you any more insults for me?"

"No, no more!" He leaned his back against the door. "Only this: if you
leave this room to-night, it's the end."

She had picked up her cloak again. "The end!" she repeated, and looked
contemptuously at him. "I should welcome it, if it were.--But you're
wrong. The end, the real end, came long ago. The beginning was the
end!--Open that door, and let me out!"

He heard her go along the hall, heard the front door shut behind her,
and, after a pause, heard the deeper tone of the house door. The
droschke drove away. After that, he stood at the window, looking out
into the pitch-dark night. Behind him, the landlady set the room in
order, and extinguished the additional candles.

When she had finished, and shut the door, Maurice faced the empty room.
His eyes ranged slowly over it; and he made a vague gesture that
signified nothing. A few steps took him to the writing-table, on which
her muff was lying. He lifted it up, and a bunch of violets fell into
his hand. They brought her before him as nothing else could have done.
Beside the bed, he went down on his knees, and drawing her pillow to
him, pressed it round his head.

The end, the end!--the beginning the end: there was truth in what she
had said. Their love had had no stamina in it, no vital power. He was
losing her, steadily and surely losing her, powerless to help
it--rather it seemed as if some malignant spirit urged him to hasten on
the crisis. Their thoughts seemed hopelessly at war.--And yet, how he
loved her! He made himself no illusions about her now; he understood
just what she was, and what she would always be; the many conflicting
impul