‘French!’ thought Mrs. Decie; ’we shall soon have peace.  Poor Christian!  I’m sorry!  After all, these things are a matter of time and opportunity.’  This consoled her a good deal.

But for Christian the hours were a long nightmare of grief and shame, fear and anger.  Would he forgive?  Would he be true to her?  Or would he go away without a word?  Since yesterday it was as if she had stepped into another world, and lost it again.  In place of that new feeling, intoxicating as wine, what was coming?  What bitter; dreadful ending?

A rude entrance this into the life of facts, and primitive emotions!

She let Greta into her room after a time, for the child had begun sobbing; but she would not talk, and sat hour after hour at the window with the air fanning her face, and the pain in her eyes turned to the sky and trees.  After one or two attempts at consolation, Greta sank on the floor, and remained there, humbly gazing at her sister in a silence only broken when Christian cleared her throat of tears, and by the song of birds in the garden.  In the afternoon she slipped away and did not come back again.

After his interview with Mr. Treffry, Herr Paul took a bath, perfumed himself with precision, and caused it to be clearly understood that, under circumstances such as these, a man’s house was not suited for a pig to live in.  He shortly afterwards went out to the Kurbaus, and had not returned by dinner-time.

Christian came down for dinner.  There were crimson spots in her cheeks, dark circles round her eyes; she behaved, however, as though nothing had happened.  Miss Naylor, affected by the kindness of her heart and the shock her system had sustained, rolled a number of bread pills, looking at each as it came, with an air of surprise, and concealing it with difficulty.  Mr. Treffry was coughing, and when he talked his voice seemed to rumble even more than usual.  Greta was dumb, trying to catch Christian’s eye; Mrs. Decie alone seemed at ease.  After dinner Mr. Treffry went off to his room, leaning heavily on Christian’s shoulder.  As he sank into his chair, he said to her: 

“Pull yourself together, my dear!” Christian did not answer him.

Outside his room Greta caught her by the sleeve.

“Look!” she whispered, thrusting a piece of paper into Christian’s hand.  “It is to me from Dr. Edmund, but you must read it.”

Christian opened the note, which ran as follows: 

“My philosopher and friend,—­I received your note, and went to our friend’s studio; he was not in, but half an hour ago I stumbled on him in the Platz.  He is not quite himself; has had a touch of the sun—­nothing serious:  I took him to my hotel, where he is in bed.  If he will stay there he will be all right in a day or two.  In any case he shall not elude my clutches for the present.

“My warm respects to Mistress Christian.—­Yours in friendship and philosophy, “Edmund Dawney.”