"

And then he disappeared into the sitting-room, collected the rugs and
cushions, opened the French window, and went out upon the terrace.
Presently he called out:

"I shall sleep as I am, Hermione, without undressing. I'm awfully done.
Good-night."

"Good-night!" she called.

There was a quiver in her voice. And yet that flame of happiness had not
quite died down. She said to herself:

"He doesn't want me to know. He's too proud. But he has been a little
jealous, perhaps." She remembered how Sicilian he was.

"But I'll make him forget it all," she thought, eagerly.
"To-morrow--to-morrow it will be all right. He's missed me, he's missed
me!"

That thought was very sweet to her. It seemed to explain all things; this
constraint of her husband, which had reacted upon her, this action of his
in preferring to sleep outside--everything. He had always been like a
boy. He was like a boy now. He could not conceal his feelings. He did not
doubt her. She knew that. But he had been a little jealous about her
friendship for Emile.

She undressed. When she was ready for bed she hesitated a moment. Then
she put a white shawl round her shoulders and stole quickly out of the
room. She came upon the terrace. The stars were waning. The gray of the
dawn was in the sky towards the east. Maurice, stretched upon the rugs,
with his face turned towards the terrace wall, was lying still. She went
to him, bent down, and kissed him.

"I love you," she whispered--"oh, so much!"

She did not wait, but went away at once. When she was gone he put up his
hand to his face. On his cheek there was a tear.

"God forgive me!" he said to himself. "God forgive me!"

His body was shaken by a sob.

XVIII

When the sun came up over the rim of the sea Maurice ceased from his
pretence of sleep, raised himself on his elbow, then sat upright and
looked over the ravine to the rocks of the Sirens' Isle. The name seemed
to him now a fatal name, and everything connected with his sojourn in
Sicily fatal. Surely there had been a malign spirit at work. In this
early morning hour his brain, though unrefreshed by sleep, was almost
unnaturally clear, feverishly busy. Something had met him when he first
set foot in Sicily--so he thought now--had met him with a fixed and evil
purpose. And that purpose had never been abandoned.

Old superstitions, inherited perhaps from a long chain of credulous
Sicilian ancestors, were stirring in him. He did not laugh