ter--notwithstanding the mildness of the day--stalked on ahead,
unconcerned about the fate of his family, which dragged, a woman and
two children, in the rear: like savages, thought Louise, where the male
goes first, to scent danger. But the crackling of paper recalled her
attention; Maurice was folding the sheet, and replacing it in the
envelope, with a ludicrous precision. His face had taken on a pinched
expression, and he handed the letter back to her without a word.

She looked at him, expecting him to say something; but he was obdurate.
"This was what I was waiting all these days to tell you," she said.

"You knew it was coming then?" He scarcely recognised his own voice; he
spoke as he supposed a judge might speak to a proven criminal.

Louise shrugged her shoulders. "No. Yes.--That is, as far as it's
possible to know such a thing."

Through the crude glass window, the sun cast a medley of lines and
lights on her hands, and on the checkered table-cloth. There were two
rough benches, and a square table; the coffeecups stood on a metal
tray; the lid of the pot was odd, did not match the set: all these
inanimate things, which, a moment ago, Maurice had seen without seeing
them, now stood out before his eyes, as if each of them had acquired an
independent life, and no longer fitted into its background.

"Let us go home," he said, and rose.

"Go home? But we have only just come!" cried Louise, with what seemed
to him pretended surprise. "Why do you want to go home? It is so quiet
here: I can talk to you. For I need your advice, Maurice. You must help
me once again."

"I help you?--in this? No, thank you. All I can do, it seems, is to
wish you joy." He remained standing, with his hand on the back of the
bench.

But at the cold amazement of her eyes, he took his seat again. "It is a
matter for yourself--only you can decide. It's none of my business." He
moved the empty cups about on the cloth.

"But why are you angry?"

"Haven't I good reason to be? To see you--you!--accepting an
impertinence of this kind so quietly. For it IS an impertinence,
Louise, that a man you hardly know should write to you in this cocksure
way and ask you to marry him. Impertinent and absurd!"

"You have a way of finding most things I want to do absurd," she
answered. "In this case, though, you're mistaken. The tone of the
letter is all it should be. And, besides, I know Mr. Van Houst very
well."

Maurice looked at her with a sardo