She again paused for a brief space, and then went on, in a firm, quiet tone:  “There is no use in prolonging this interview; nothing will alter my decision; we will both follow out the course you have mapped out.  I repeat again, Harold, that if you do not leave the house, as intended, I certainly shall.”

Again, seating herself at the piano, she ran her fingers restlessly over the keys, as though his presence were trying to her.

He stood by the side of the piano for a space and looked sadly and absently at her; but her set face gave him no encouragement.  With a troubled air he turned and began to walk slowly and thoughtfully toward the door—­when in deep distress he always grew strangely absent.  When near the door his attention was attracted by a little book lying on a table.  He picked it up, without appearing to be conscious of doing so, and opened it, but his eyes wandered far away from the open pages.  He raised his hand thoughtfully to his face and said, ponderingly, to himself, in a low voice:  “How—­how could I have made such a mistake—­such a frightful mistake?  How changed she is, too!”

She now began to play a low, dreamy air, which stole into his heart and riveted his laggard feet still more to the room where she was.

As he slowly turned away, she partly turned her head, and with unmoved face watched his retreating figure.  But when she noted his absent manner, which she recalled so well; saw the pondering look on his face when he picked up the book, which she knew he was not conscious of holding; caught the tired droop of his shoulders, and the glint of early grey hair at his temples, a pathetic expression stole about her mouth, and she made a motion as though she would cease playing and go over to him; but the bitterness was greater than the pity, and conquering the impulse, she kept her seat and played on.

As he was closing the book it fell on the table.  His eyes followed it mechanically.  “Yes,” he went on presently, as though following out a deep train of thought, “a frightful mistake, how could I have made it?”

His restless fingers sought his watch-chain as he once more turned toward the door.  The notes from the piano were now getting faint, low and irregular—­her face was still turned in his direction.

As he was about to open the door, his attention was attracted by a thermometer which hung there in a prettily worked frame.  Taking it down he looked at it for a space and then, unthinkingly, put it into his pocket.  As the door was closing behind him his lips again moved:  “Yes, a frightful, frightful mistake!”

She continued to play, her face turned toward the door; but the white fingers were now straying very waveringly over the keys.  Suddenly the room was filled with a discordant jar—­her arms were resting heavily on the keys, her face buried in them, and her shoulders were heaving in quick distress.  If he had but come back then!