ow permitted. Louise had not spoken since leaving the house;
she also stood mutely by, while the astonished boatman, knocked out in
the middle of his festivities, unlocked the boat-shed where the
ice-chairs were kept. The Christmas punch had made him merry; he
multiplied words, and was even a little facetious at their expense.
According to him, a snow-storm was imminent, and he warned them not to
be late in returning.

Maurice helped Louise into the chair, and wrapped the rug round her. If
she were really afraid, as she had asserted, she did not show it. Even
after they had started, she remained as silent as before; indeed, on
looking back, Maurice thought they had not exchanged a word all the way
to Connewitz. He pushed in a kind of dream; the wind was with them, and
it was comparatively easy work; but the ice was rough, and too hard,
and there were seamy cracks to be avoided. The snow had drifted into
huge piles at the sides; and, as they advanced, it lay unswept on their
track. It was a hazily bright night, but rapid clouds were passing. Not
a creature was to be seen: had a rift opened in the ice, and had they
two gone through it, the mystery of their disappearance would never
have been solved.

Slight, upright, unfathomable as the night, Louise sat before him. What
her thoughts were on this fantastic journey, he never knew, nor just
what secret nerve in her was satisfied by it. By leaning sideways, he
could see that her eyes were fixed on the grey-white stretch to be
travelled: her warm breath came back to him; and the coil of her hair,
with its piquant odour, was so close that, by bending, he could have
touched it with his lips. But he was still in too detached a mood to be
happy; he felt, throughout, as if all this were happening to some one
else, not to him.

At their journey's end, he helped her, cold and stiff, along the snowy
path to the WALDCAFE. In a corner of the big room, which was empty,
they sat beside the stove, before cups of steaming coffee. The landlady
served them herself, and looked with the same curious interest as the
boatman at the forlorn pair.

Louise had laid her fur cap aside with her other wraps, and had drawn
off her gloves; and now she sat with her hand propping her chin. She
was still disinclined to speak; from the expression of her eyes,
Maurice judged that her thought were very far away. Sitting opposite
her, he shaded his own eyes with his hand, and scrutinised her closely.
In th