he could not hinder his thoughts from
slipping forward to the coming evening, he, too, had moments of
preoccupied silence.

When the clock struck eight, he rose to go. In saying goodnight, he
turned her face up, and asked her had she decided if she were coming to
hear him play.

It was on her direct lips to reply that she had not thought anything
about it. A glance at his face checked her. He was waiting anxiously
for her answer: it was a matter of importance to him. Her previous
sense of remissness was still with her, hampering her, making her
unfree; and for a minute she did not know what to say.

"Would you mind much if I asked you not to come?" he said as she
hesitated.

"No, of course not," she hastened to respond, glad to be relieved of
the decision. "If you would rather I didn't."

"It's a fancy of mine, dearest--foolish, I know--that I shall get on
better if you're not there."

"It's all right. I understand."

When he had gone, she returned to her place at the window. It was a
fine night: there was no moon; but the stars glittered furiously in the
inky-blue sky, a stretch of which was visible above the gardens. The
vastness of the night, the distance of sky and stars, made her shiver.
Leaning her wrists on the cold, moist sill, she looked down into the
street; it was not very far; but a jump from where she was, to the
pavement, would suffice to put an end to every feeling. She was very
lonely; no one wanted her. Here she might stand, at this forlorn post,
for hours, for the whole night; no one would either know or care.--And
her feeling of error, of unfreedom and desolation grew so hard to bear
that, for fear she should actually throw herself down, she banged the
window to, with a crash that resounded through the street.

But there was something else at work in her to-night, which she could
not understand. She struggled with it, as one struggles with a
forgotten melody, which hovers behind the consciousness, and will not
emerge.

Except for the light thrown by a small lamp, the room was in shadow.
She went slowly back to the sofa. On the way she trod on the roses;
they had been knocked down and forgotten. She picked them up, and laid
them on the cushioned seat beside her. They were dark crimson, and gave
out a strong scent: Maurice had seldom brought her such beautiful
roses. She sat with her elbows on her knees, her hands closed and
pressed to her cheeks, as though she could only think with her mus