After dinner, they sat out on a balcony.  The stars glowed above the palms; a frog was croaking.  He managed to draw his chair so that he could look at her unseen.  How deep, and softly dark her eyes, when for a second they rested on his!  A moth settled on her knee—­a cunning little creature, with its hooded, horned owl’s face, and tiny black slits of eyes!  Would it have come so confidingly to anyone but her?  The Colonel knew its name—­he had collected it.  Very common, he said.  The interest in it passed; but Lennan stayed, bent forward, gazing at that silk-covered knee.

The voice of Mrs. Ercott, sharper than its wont, said:  “What day does Robert say he wants you back, my dear?”

He managed to remain gazing at the moth, even to take it gently from her knee, while he listened to her calm answer.

“Tuesday, I believe.”

Then he got up, and let the moth fly into the darkness; his hands and lips were trembling, and he was afraid of their being seen.  He had never known, had not dreamed, of such a violent, sick feeling.  That this man could thus hale her home at will!  It was grotesque, fantastic, awful, but—­it was true!  Next Tuesday she would journey back away from him to be again at the mercy of her Fate!  The pain of this thought made him grip the railing, and grit his teeth, to keep himself from crying out.  And another thought came to him:  I shall have to go about with this feeling, day and night, and keep it secret.

They were saying good-night; and he had to smirk and smile, and pretend—­to her above all—­that he was happy, and he could see that she knew it was pretence.

Then he was alone, with the feeling that he had failed her at the first shot; torn, too, between horror of what he suddenly saw before him, and longing to be back in her presence at any cost. . . .  And all this on the day of that first kiss which had seemed to him to make her so utterly his own.

He sat down on a bench facing the Casino.  Neither the lights, nor the people passing in and out, not even the gipsy bandsmen’s music, distracted his thoughts for a second.  Could it be less than twenty-four hours since he had picked up her handkerchief, not thirty yards away?  In that twenty-four hours he seemed to have known every emotion that man could feel.  And in all the world there was now not one soul to whom he could speak his real thoughts—­not even to her, because from her, beyond all, he must keep at any cost all knowledge of his unhappiness.  So this was illicit love—­as it was called!  Loneliness, and torture!  Not jealousy—­for her heart was his; but amazement, outrage, fear.  Endless lonely suffering!  And nobody, if they knew, would care, or pity him one jot!

Was there really, then, as the ancients thought, a Daemon that liked to play with men, as men liked to stir an earwig and turn it over and put a foot on it in the end?