ting of his letter, he needed human
companionship. Until the question whether Louise would return or not
was decided, he could settle to nothing; and Krafft's ramblings took
him out of himself. Since the ball, his other friends had given him the
cold shoulder; hence it did not matter whether or no they approved of
his renewed intimacy with Krafft--he said "they," but it was Madeleine
who was present to his mind. And Krafft was an easy person to take up
with again; he never bore a grudge, and met Maurice readily, half-way.

It had not taken the latter long to shape his actions or what he
believed to be the best. But his thoughts were beyond control. He was
as helpless against sudden spells of depression as against dreams of an
iridescent brightness. He could no more avoid dwelling on the future
than reliving the Past. If Louise did not return, these memories were
all that were left him. If she did, what form were their relations to
each other going to assume?--and this was the question that cost him
most anxious thought.

A thing that affected him oddly, at this time, was his growing
inability to call up her face. It was incredible. This face, which he
had supposed he knew so well that he could have drawn it blindfold, had
taken to eluding him; and the more impatient he became, the poorer was
his success. The disquieting thing, however, was, that though he could
not materialise her face, what invariably rose before his eyes was her
long, bare arm, as it had lain on the black stuff of her dress. At
first, it only came when he was battling to secure the face; then it
took to appearing at unexpected moments; and eventually, it became a
kind of nightmare, which haunted him. He would start up from dreaming
of it, his hair moist with perspiration, for, strangely enough, he was
always on the point of doing it harm: either his teeth were meeting in
it, or he had drawn the blade of a knife down the middle of the
blue-veined whiteness, and the blood spurted out along the line, which
reddened instantly in the wake of the knife.

April had come, bringing April weather; it was fitfully sunny, and a
mild and generous dampness spurred on growth: shrubs and bushes were so
thickly sprinkled with small buds that, at a distance, it seemed as
though a transparent green veil had been flung over them. In the
Gewandhaus, according to custom, the Ninth Symphony had brought the
concert season to a close; once more, the chorus had struggled
vi