"What has happened?"

"It's a long story, but you may take it from me that all is over.
The tie between us is broken. I don't know that it was ever very

close. It was an external thing. The true misfortune is that I
have ever seen you."

This last phrase was provoked by an exclamation of sympathy on her
part. She raised herself on her elbow and looked at me intently.

"All over," she murmured.
"Yes, we had to wreck the little vessel. It was awful. I feel

like a murderer. But she had to be killed."
"Why?"

"Because I loved her too much. Don't you know that love and death
go very close together?"

"I could feel almost happy that it is all over, if you hadn't had
to lose your love. Oh, amigo George, it was a safe love for you."

"Yes," I said. "It was a faithful little vessel. She would have
saved us all from any plain danger. But this was a betrayal. It

was - never mind. All that's past. The question is what will the
next one be."

"Why should it be that?"
"I don't know. Life seems but a series of betrayals. There are so

many kinds of them. This was a betrayed plan, but one can betray
confidence, and hope and - desire, and the most sacred . . ."

"But what are you doing here?" she interrupted.
"Oh, yes! The eternal why. Till a few hours ago I didn't know

what I was here for. And what are you here for?" I asked point
blank and with a bitterness she disregarded. She even answered my

question quite readily with many words out of which I could make
very little. I only learned that for at least five mixed reasons,

none of which impressed me profoundly, Dona Rita had started at a
moment's notice from Paris with nothing but a dressing-bag, and

permitting Rose to go and visit her aged parents for two days, and
then follow her mistress. That girl of late had looked so

perturbed and worried that the sensitive Rita, fearing that she was
tired of her place, proposed to settle a sum of money on her which

would have enabled her to devote herself entirely to her aged
parents. And did I know what that extraordinary girl said? She

had said: "Don't let Madame think that I would be too proud to
accept anything whatever from her; but I can't even dream of

leaving Madame. I believe Madame has no friends. Not one." So
instead of a large sum of money Dona Rita gave the girl a kiss and

as she had been worried by several people who wanted her to go to
Tolosa she bolted down this way just to get clear of all those

busybodies. "Hide from them," she went on with ardour. "Yes, I
came here to hide," she repeated twice as if delighted at last to

have hit on that reason among so many others. "How could I tell
that you would be here?" Then with sudden fire which only added to

the delight with which I had been watching the play of her
physiognomy she added: "Why did you come into this room?"

She enchanted me. The ardent modulations of the sound, the slight
play of the beautiful lips, the still, deep sapphire gleam in those

long eyes inherited from the dawn of ages and that seemed always to
watch unimaginable things, that underlying faint ripple of gaiety

that played under all her moods as though it had been a gift from
the high gods moved to pity for this lonelymortal, all this within

the four walls and displayed for me alone gave me the sense of
almost intolerable joy. The words didn't matter. They had to be

answered, of course.
"I came in for several reasons. One of them is that I didn't know

you were here."
"Therese didn't tell you?"

"No."
"Never talked to you about me?"

I hesitated only for a moment. "Never," I said. Then I asked in
my turn, "Did she tell you I was here?"

"No," she said.
"It's very clear she did not mean us to come together again."

"Neither did I, my dear."
"What do you mean by speaking like this, in this tone, in these

words? You seem to use them as if they were a sort of formula. Am
I a dear to you? Or is anybody? . . . or everybody? . . ."

She had been for some time raised on her elbow, but then as if
something had happened to her vitality she sank down till her head

rested again on the sofa cushion.
"Why do you try to hurt my feelings?" she asked.

"For the same reason for which you call me dear at the end of a
sentence like that: for want of something more amusing to do. You

don't pretend to make me believe that you do it for any sort of
reason that a decent person would confess to."

The colour had gone from her face; but a fit of wickedness was on
me and I pursued, "What are the motives of your speeches? What

prompts your actions? On your own showing your life seems to be a
continuous running away. You have just run away from Paris. Where

will you run to-morrow? What are you everlastingly running from -
or is it that you are running after something? What is it? A man,

a phantom - or some sensation that you don't like to own to?"
Truth to say, I was abashed by the silence which was her only

answer to this sally. I said to myself that I would not let my
natural anger, my just fury be disarmed by any assumption of pathos

or dignity. I suppose I was really out of my mind and what in the
middle ages would have been called "possessed" by an evil spirit.

I went on enjoying my own villainy.
"Why aren't you in Tolosa? You ought to be in Tolosa. Isn't

Tolosa the proper field for your abilities, for your sympathies,
for your profusions, for your generosities - the king without a

crown, the man without a fortune! But here there is nothing worthy
of your talents. No, there is no longer anything worth any sort of

trouble here. There isn't even that ridiculous Monsieur George. I
understand that the talk of the coast from here to Cette is that

Monsieur George is drowned. Upon my word I believe he is. And
serve him right, too. There's Therese, but I don't suppose that

your love for your sister . . ."
"For goodness' sake don't let her come in and find you here."

Those words recalled me to myself, exorcised the evil spirit by the
mere enchanting power of the voice. They were also impressive by

their suggestion of something practical, utilitarian, and remote
from sentiment. The evil spirit left me and I remained taken aback

slightly.
"Well," I said, "if you mean that you want me to leave the room I

will confess to you that I can't very well do it yet. But I could
lock both doors if you don't mind that."

"Do what you like as long as you keep her out. You two together
would be too much for me to-night. Why don't you go and lock those

doors? I have a feeling she is on the prowl."
I got up at once saying, "I imagine she has gone to bed by this

time." I felt absolutely calm and responsible. I turned the keys
one after another so gently that I couldn't hear the click of the

locks myself. This done I recrossed the room with measured steps,
with downcast eyes, and approaching the couch without raising them

from the carpet I sank down on my knees and leaned my forehead on
its edge. That penitential attitude had but little remorse in it.

I detected no movement and heard no sound from her. In one place a
bit of the fur coat touched my cheek softly, but no forgiving hand

came to rest on my bowed head. I only breathed deeply the faint
scent of violets, her own particular fragrance enveloping my body,

penetrating my very heart with an inconceivable intimacy, bringing
me closer to her than the closest embrace, and yet so subtle that I

sensed her existence in me only as a great, glowing, indeterminate
tenderness, something like the evening light disclosing after the

white passion of the day infinite depths in the colours of the sky
and an unsuspected soul of peace in the protean forms of life. I

had not known such quietness for months; and I detected in myself
an immensefatigue, a longing to remain where I was without

changing my position to the end of time. Indeed to remain seemed