, and holding it in
his hand, looked at it, after the fashion of a drunken man, who does
not recognise the object he holds. And even while he did this, he burst
into a peal of laughter, which made him lean for support against the
wall of the house. The noise he made sounded idiotic, sounded mad, in
the quiet street; but he was unable to contain himself. She had left
him the key--had left the key! Oh, what a fool he was!

His laughter died away. He opened the door, noiselessly, as he had
learned by practice to do, and as noiselessly entered the vestibule and
went up the stairs.

IX.

Several versions of the contretemps with Herries were afloat
immediately. All agreed in one point: Maurice Guest had been in an
advanced stage of intoxication. A scuffle was said to have taken place
in the deserted street; there had been tears, and prayers, and shrill
accusing voices. In the version that reached Madeleine's cars, blows
were mentioned. She stood aghast at the disclosures the story made, and
at all these implied. Until now, Maurice had at least striven to
preserve appearances. If once you became callous enough not to care
what people said of you, you wilfully made of yourself a social outcast.

That same afternoon, as she was mounting the steps of the
Conservatorium, she came face to face with Krafft. They had not met for
weeks; and Madeleine remarked this, as they stood together. But she was
not thinking very deeply of him or his affairs; and when she asked him
if he would go across to her room, and wait for her there, she was
following an impulse that had no connection with him. As usual, Krafft
had nothing particular to do; and when she returned, half an hour
later, she found him lying on her sofa, with his arms under his head,
his knees crossed above him. The air of the room was grey with smoke;
but, for once, Madeleine set no limit to his cigarettes. Sitting down
at the table, she looked meditatively at him. For some moments neither
spoke.

But as Krafft drew out his case to take another cigarette, a tattered
volume of Reclam's UNIVERSAL LIBRARY fell from his pocket, and spread
itself on the floor. Madeleine stooped and pieced it together.

"What have we here?--ah, your Bible!" she said sarcastically: it was a
novel by a modern Danish poet, who died young. "You carry it about with
you, I see."

"To-day I needed STIMMUNG. But don't say Bible; that's an error of
taste. Say 'death-book.' One can study death