it was Louise; he recognised her although a fur hat
almost covered her hair. She was gazing down, with an intentness he
knew in her; one hand rested on the parapet. And then, as he looked,
his blood seemed to congeal: she was not alone; he saw her turn and
speak to some one behind her. For a moment things swam before him.
Then, a blind curiosity drove him forward to find out whom she spoke
to. People moved on the bridge, obstructing his view, then several went
away, and there was no further hindrance to his seeing: her companion
was the shabby little Englishman, of doubtful reputation, with whom he
had met her once or twice that summer. He felt himself grow cold. But
now that he had certainty, his chief idea was to prevent the others
from knowing, too; he grew sick at the thought of Madeleine's sharp
comments, and Dickensey's cynicism. Rejoining them, he insisted--so
imperiously that Madeleine showed surprise--on their skating with him
on the further pond; and he kept them going round and round without a
pause.

When the bridge was empty, and he had made sure that Louise was not
standing anywhere about the edge of the ice, he left his companions,
and, without explanation, crossed to the benches and took off his
skates. He did not, however, go home; he went into the SCHEIBENHOLZ,
and from there along outlying roads till he reached the river; and
then, screwing on his skates again, he struck out with his face to the
wind. Dusk was falling; at first he met some skaters making for home;
but these were few, and he soon left them behind. When the state of the
ice did not allow of his skating further, he plunged into the woods
again, beyond Connewitz, tumbling in his haste, tripping over
snow-bound roots, sinking kneedeep in the soft snow. His endeavour was
to exhaust himself. If he sat at home now, before this fever was out of
him, he might be tempted to knock his head against the wall of his
room. Movement, space, air--plenty of air!--that was what he needed.

Hitherto, he had been surprised at his own conduct; now he was aghast:
the hot rush of jealousy that had swept through him at the sight of the
couple on the bridge, was a revelation even to himself. His previous
feelings had been those of a child compared with this--a mere weak
revolt against the inevitable. But what had now happened was not
inevitable; that was the sting of it: it was a violent chance-effect.
And his distress was so keen that, for the first time, sh