rather faster than usual.  It was this that made him stop, with a half-amused surprise.  But in a moment he went along the piazza, and, approaching the open window, tapped upon its lintel with his stick.  He could see the Baroness within; she was standing in the middle of the room.  She came to the window and pulled aside the curtain; then she stood looking at him a moment.  She was not smiling; she seemed serious.

“Mais entrez donc!” she said at last.  Acton passed in across the window-sill; he wondered, for an instant, what was the matter with her.  But the next moment she had begun to smile and had put out her hand.  “Better late than never,” she said.  “It is very kind of you to come at this hour.”

“I have just returned from my journey,” said Acton.

“Ah, very kind, very kind,” she repeated, looking about her where to sit.

“I went first to the other house,” Acton continued.  “I expected to find you there.”

She had sunk into her usual chair; but she got up again, and began to move about the room.  Acton had laid down his hat and stick; he was looking at her, conscious that there was in fact a great charm in seeing her again.  “I don’t know whether I ought to tell you to sit down,” she said.  “It is too late to begin a visit.”

“It ’s too early to end one,” Acton declared; “and we need n’t mind the beginning.”

She looked at him again, and, after a moment, dropped once more into her low chair, while he took a place near her.  “We are in the middle, then?” she asked.  “Was that where we were when you went away?  No, I have n’t been to the other house.”

“Not yesterday, nor the day before, eh?”

“I don’t know how many days it is.”

“You are tired of it,” said Acton.

She leaned back in her chair; her arms were folded.  “That is a terrible accusation, but I have not the courage to defend myself.”

“I am not attacking you,” said Acton.  “I expected something of this kind.”

“It ’s a proof of extreme intelligence.  I hope you enjoyed your journey.”

“Not at all,” Acton declared.  “I would much rather have been here with you.”

“Now you are attacking me,” said the Baroness.  “You are contrasting my inconstancy with your own fidelity.”

“I confess I never get tired of people I like.”

“Ah, you are not a poor wicked foreign woman, with irritable nerves and a sophisticated mind!”

“Something has happened to you since I went away,” said Acton, changing his place.

“Your going away—­that is what has happened to me.”

“Do you mean to say that you have missed me?” he asked.

“If I had meant to say it, it would not be worth your making a note of.  I am very dishonest and my compliments are worthless.”

Acton was silent for some moments.  “You have broken down,” he said at last.

Madame Munster left her chair, and began to move about.