In spite of his desire for it, he had never dared ask her to pass the night with him.  During the day he would only betray himself by his sad or fantastic temper; but at night, with such dreams as came to him, might not some word escape that would betray him?

However, since she was come it was impossible to send her away; he could not do it for her nor for himself.  What pretext could he find to say, “Go!  I do not want you?” He wanted her above all; he wanted to look at her, to listen to her, to hear her voice that soothed and lulled his anguish, to feel her near him—­only to have her there, and not be face to face with his thoughts.

She examined him secretly, asking herself the cause of this singular reception, standing at the entrance of the office, not daring to remove her hat.  How could her arrival produce an effect so different from what she expected?

“You do not take off your hat?” he said.

“I was asking myself if you had to work.”

“Why do you ask yourself that?”

“For fear of disturbing you.”

“What a madness you have for always asking something!” he exclaimed violently.  “What do you expect me to say?  What astonishes you?  Why should you disturb me?  In what?  ‘Voyons’, speak, explain yourself!”

The time was far distant when these explosions surprised her, though they always pained her.

“I speak stupidly,” she said.  “What will you?  I am stupid; forgive me.”

These words, “forgive me,” were more cruel than numberless reproaches, for he well knew that he had nothing to forgive in her, since she was the victim and he the criminal.  Should he never be able to master these explosions, as imprudent as they were unjust?

He took her in his arms and made her sit by him.

“It is for you to forgive,” he said.

And he was as tender and caressing as he had been brutal.  He was a fool to imagine that she could have suspicions, and the surest way to give birth to them was to show fear that she had them.  To betray himself by such awkwardness was as serious as to let a cry escape him while sleeping.

But for this night he had a way which was in reality not difficult, that would not expose him to the danger of talking in his sleep-he would not sleep.  After having passed so many nights without closing his eyes, without doubt he could keep them open this entire night.

But he deceived himself; when he heard the calm and regular respiration of Phillis with her head on his shoulder, and felt the mild warmth of her body penetrate his, in the quiet imposed upon him, without being conscious of it, believing himself far from sleep, and convinced that he required no effort to keep awake, he suddenly slept.  When he awoke a ray of pale sunlight filled the room, and leaning her elbow on the bolster, Phillis was watching him.  He made a brusque movement, throwing himself backward.  “What is the matter?” he cried.  “What