is in the air," he sought to tempt Louise, when, a few minutes
later, he entered her room.

She, too, had been aware of the change; for it had aggravated her
dejection. She raised her eyes to his like a tired child, and had not
strength enough to make her usual stand against him. Oh, if he really
wished it so much, she would go out, she said at last. And so he left
her to dress, and ran to the Conservatorium, arriving just in time for
a class.

Later on, a curious uneasiness drew him back to see how she had fared.
It was almost dark, but she had not returned; and he waited for half an
hour before he heard her step in the hall. Directly she came in, he
knew that something was the matter.

In each of her movements was a concentrated, but noiseless energy: she
shut the door after her as if it were never to open again; tore off
rather than unpinned the thick black veil in which she had shrouded
herself; threw her hat on the sofa, furs and jacket to the hat; then
stood motionless, pressing her handkerchief to her lips. Her face had
emerged from its wrappings with renewed pallor; her eyes shone as if
with belladonna. She took no notice of the silent figure in the corner,
did not even look in his direction.

"You've got back," said Maurice, for the sake of saying something.
"It's too late."

At his words, she dropped on a chair, put her arms on the table, and
hid her face in them.

"What's the matter? Has anything happened?" he asked, in quick alarm,
as she burst into violent sobs. He should have been accustomed to her
way of crying by this time--it sounded worse than it was, as he
knew--but it invariably racked him anew. He stood over her; but the
only comfort he ventured on was to lay his hand on her hair--this wild
black hair, which met his fingers springily, with a will of its own.

"What is the matter?" he besought her. "Tell me, Louise--tell me what
it is."

He had to ask several times before he received an answer. Finally, she
sobbed in a muffled voice, without raising her head: "How could you
make me go out! Oh, how COULD you!"

"What do you mean? I don't understand. What is it?" He had visions of
her being annoyed or insulted.

But she only repeated: "How could you! Oh, it was cruel of you!" and
wept afresh.

Word by word, Maurice drew her story from her. There was not very much
to tell.

She had gone out, and had walked hurriedly along quiet by-streets to
the ROSENTAL. But before she had advanced a