Her shoulders shook as though she had been sobbing, and he forgot himself in the contemplation of her hair.  Suddenly he gave a start, as if waking up, and asked very gently and not much above a whisper—­

“Have you been meeting him often?”

“Never!” she cried into the palms of her hands.

This answer seemed for a moment to take from him the power of speech.  His lips moved for some time before any sound came.

“You preferred to make love here—­under my very nose,” he said, furiously.  He calmed down instantly, and felt regretfully uneasy, as though he had let himself down in her estimation by that outburst.  She rose, and with her hand on the back of the chair confronted him with eyes that were perfectly dry now.  There was a red spot on each of her cheeks.

“When I made up my mind to go to him—­I wrote,” she said.

“But you didn’t go to him,” he took up in the same tone.  “How far did you go?  What made you come back?”

“I didn’t know myself,” she murmured.  Nothing of her moved but her lips.  He fixed her sternly.

“Did he expect this?  Was he waiting for you?” he asked.

She answered him by an almost imperceptible nod, and he continued to look at her for a good while without making a sound.  Then, at last—­

“And I suppose he is waiting yet?” he asked, quickly.

Again she seemed to nod at him.  For some reason he felt he must know the time.  He consulted his watch gloomily.  Half-past seven.

“Is he?” he muttered, putting the watch in his pocket.  He looked up at her, and, as if suddenly overcome by a sense of sinister fun, gave a short, harsh laugh, directly repressed.

“No!  It’s the most unheard! . . .” he mumbled while she stood before him biting her lower lip, as if plunged in deep thought.  He laughed again in one low burst that was as spiteful as an imprecation.  He did not know why he felt such an overpowering and sudden distaste for the facts of existence—­for facts in general—­such an immense disgust at the thought of all the many days already lived through.  He was wearied.  Thinking seemed a labour beyond his strength.  He said—­

“You deceived me—­now you make a fool of him . . .  It’s awful!  Why?”

“I deceived myself!” she exclaimed.

“Oh!  Nonsense!” he said, impatiently.

“I am ready to go if you wish it,” she went on, quickly.  “It was due to you—­to be told—­to know.  No!  I could not!” she cried, and stood still wringing her hands stealthily.

“I am glad you repented before it was too late,” he said in a dull tone and looking at his boots.  “I am glad . . . some spark of better feeling,” he muttered, as if to himself.  He lifted up his head after a moment of brooding silence.  “I am glad to see that there is some sense of decency left in you,” he added a little louder.  Looking at her he appeared to hesitate, as if estimating the possible consequences of what he wished to say, and at last blurted out—­