petite, lost sleep, and lost ambition. Several of my friends
intimated to me that perhaps I was working too hard.

She stayed away the whole summer. I did not go to the house, but saw
her father at various times, and he was as friendly as ever. Even
after I knew that she was back in town, I did not go to see her. I
determined to wait for some word or sign. I had finally taken refuge
and comfort in my pride, pride which, I suppose, I came by naturally
enough.

The first time I saw her after her return was one night at the
theatre. She and her mother sat in company with a young man whom I
knew slightly, not many seats away from me. Never did she appear more
beautiful; and yet, it may have been my fancy, she seemed a trifle
paler, and there was a suggestion of haggardness in her countenance.
But that only heightened her beauty; the very delicacy of her charm
melted down the strength of my pride. My situation made me feel weak
and powerless, like a man trying with his bare hands to break the iron
bars of his prison cell. When the performance was over, I hurried out
and placed myself where, unobserved, I could see her as she passed
out. The haughtiness of spirit in which I had sought relief was all
gone, and I was willing and ready to undergo any humiliation.

Shortly afterward we met at a progressive card party, and during the
evening we were thrown together at one of the tables as partners. This
was really our first meeting since the eventful night at her house.
Strangely enough, in spite of our mutual nervousness, we won every
trick of the game, and one of our opponents jokingly quoted the old
saw: "Lucky at cards, unlucky in love." Our eyes met and I am sure
that in the momentary glance my whole soul went out to her in one
great plea. She lowered her eyes and uttered a nervous little laugh.
During the rest of the game I fully merited the unexpressed and
expressed abuse of my various partners; for my eyes followed her
wherever she was and I played whatever card my fingers happened to
touch.

Later in the evening she went to the piano and began to play very
softly, as to herself, the opening bars of the Thirteenth Nocturne. I
felt that the psychic moment of my life had come, a moment which, if
lost, could never be called back; and, in as careless a manner as I
could assume, I sauntered over to the piano and stood almost bending
over her. She continued playing, but, in a voice that was almost a
whisper, she called me b