as if she felt
she would have to rely on his wealth of experience and greater
superiority in general.

He was sorry for her and sorry for himself. He knew what was in store
for him and her. When he looked over this Hogarthian gathering, and saw,
despite its festive, convivial mood, hidden lusts of every description,
crippled passions, secreted envy, and mysterious vindictiveness spread
about like the stench of foul blood, he felt it was quite futile to
cherish delusions of any kind as to what was before him. To spare
Eleanore and to defend her, to leave her rather than be guilty of
causing the child-like smile on her lips to die out and disappear
forever--this he believed in the bottom of his heart he could promise
both her and himself.

The working man and his family had left; and as it was no longer
raining, most of the other guests had also gone. Up in the room above
people were dancing. The lamps were shaking, and it was easy to hear the
low sounds of the bass violin. Daniel took out his pencil, and began
writing notes on the table. Eleanore bent over, looking at him, and,
like him, fell to dreamy thinking.

Neither wished to know what the other was thinking; they entertained
themselves in silence; inwardly they were drawn closer and closer
together, as if by some mysterious and irresistible power. They had not
noticed that it was evening, that the room was empty, that the waiters
had taken the glasses away, and that the dance music in the room above
had stopped.

They sat there in the half-lighted corner side by side, as if in some
dark, deserted cavern. When they finally came out of their deep silence
and looked at each other, they were first surprised and then dismayed.

"What are we going to do?" asked Eleanore half in a whisper, "it is
late; we must be going home."

The sky was clouded, a warm wind swept across the plains, the road was
full of puddles. Here and there a light flashed from the darkness, and a
dog barked every now and then in the distant villages. When the road
turned into the forest, Daniel gave Eleanore his arm. She took it, but
soon let go. Daniel stopped, and said almost angrily: "Are we bewitched,
both of us? Speak, Eleanore, speak!"

"What is there for me to say?" she asked gently. "I am frightened; it is
so dark."

"You are frightened, Eleanore, you? You do not know the night. It has
never yet been night in your soul; nor night in the world about you. Now
you appreciate perhaps