he red velvet sofas, had
vanished with their charges, and, in their train, the more sedate of
the company: it was past three o'clock, and now, every few minutes, a
cloaked couple crossed a corner of the hall to the street-door.

When Maurice went downstairs, he could not find Louise, and some time
elapsed before she and Herries emerged from the supper-room. Although
the lines beneath her eyes were like rings of hammered iron, she danced
anew, went on to the very end, with a few other infatuated people.
Finally, the tired musicians rose stiffly to pack their instruments;
and, with a sigh of exhaustion, she received on her shoulders the cloak
Maurice stood holding.

They were among the last to leave the hall; the lights went out behind
them. Herries walked a part of the way home with them, and talked much
and idly--ineffable in his self-conceit, thought Maurice. But Louise
urged him on, saying wild, disconnected things, as if, as long as words
were spoken, it did not matter what they were. Again and again her
laugh resounded: it was hoarse, and did not ring true.

"She has had too much champagne," Maurice said to himself, as he walked
silent at her side.

In the ROSSPLATZ, Herries, who was in a becoming fur cap, and a coat
with a fur-lined collar, took a circumstantial leave of her. He raised
both her hands to his lips.

"To the memory of those divine waltzes--our waltzes!" he said
sentimentally. "And to all the others the future has in store for us!"

She left her hands in his, and smiled at him.

"Till to-morrow then," said Herries. "Or shall you forget your promise?"

"It is you who will forget--not I."

After this, Maurice and she walked on alone together. It was that
dreariest of all the hours between sunset and dawn, when it is scarcely
night any longer, and yet not nearly day. The crisp frost of the
previous evening had given place to a bleak rawness; the day that was
coming would crawl in, lugubriously, unable to get the better of the
darkness. The houses about them were wrapped in sleep; they two were
the only people abroad, and their footsteps echoed in the damp streets.
But, for once, Louise was not affected by the gloom of her
surroundings. She walked swiftly, and her chief aim seemed to be to
render any but the most trival words impossible. Now, however, her
strained gaiety had the aspect of a fever; Maurice believed that, for
the most part, she did not know what she was saying.

Until they stood