a week had dragged out, however, since her return, before he was
suffering in a new way, in the oldest, cruellest way of all.

The PENSION at which she had stayed in Dresden, had been frequented by
leisured foreigners: over twenty people, of various nationalities, had
sat down daily at the dinner-table. Among so large a number, it would
have been easy for Louise to hold herself aloof. But, as far as Maurice
could gather, she had felt no inclination to do this. From the first,
she seemed to have been the nucleus of an admiring circle, chief among
the members of which was a family of Americans--a brother and two
sisters, rich Southerners, possessed of a vague leaning towards art and
music. The names of these people recurred persistently in her talk;
and, as the days went by, Maurice found himself listening for one name
in particular, with an irritation he could not master. Raymond van
Houst--a ridiculous name!--fit only for a backstairs romance. But as
often as she spoke of Dresden, it was on her lips. Whether in the
Galleries, or at the Opera, on driving excursions, or on foot, this man
had been at her side; and soon the mere mention of him was enough to
set Maurice's teeth on edge.

One afternoon, he found her standing before an extravagant mass of
flowers, which were heaped up on the table; there were white and purple
violets, a great bunch of lilies of the valley, and roses of different
colours. They had been sent to her from Dresden, she said; but, beyond
this, she offered no explanation. All the vases in the room were
collected before her; but she had not begun to fill them: she stood
with her hands in the flowers, tumbling them about, enjoying the
contact of their moist freshness.

To Maurice's remark that she seemed to take a pleasure in destroying
them, she returned a casual: "What does it matter?" and taking up as
many violets as she could hold, looked defiantly at him over their
purple leaves. Through all she said and did ran a strong undercurrent
of excitement.

But before Maurice left, her manner changed. She came over to him, and
said, without looking up: "Maurice I want to tell you something."

"Yes; what is it?" He spoke with the involuntary coolness this mood of
hers called out in him; and she was quick to feel it. She returned to
the table.

"You ask so prosaically: you are altogether prosaic to-day. And it is
not a thing I can tell you off-hand. You would need to sit down again.
It's a long story