It was warm and still, very still in the sisters’ little room.  The buzz of a fly was audible now and again, as it flew round the little oil-cup Irene had left empty, and now and again the breathing of the sleeper, coming more and more rapidly.  Every trace of fatigue had vanished from Klea’s countenance, her lips parted and pouted as if for a kiss, her cheeks glowed, and at last she raised both hands as if to defend herself and stammered out in her dream, “No, no, certainly not—­pray, do not! my love—­” Then her arm fell again by her side, and dropping on the chest on which she was sitting, the blow woke her.  She slowly opened her eyes with a happy smile; then she raised her long silken lashes till her eyes were open, and she gazed fixedly on vacancy as though something strange had met her gaze.  Thus she sat for some time without moving; then she started up, pressed her hand on her brow and eyes, and shuddering as if she had seen something horrible or were shivering with ague, she murmured in gasps, while she clenched her teeth: 

“What does this mean?  How come I by such thoughts?  What demons are these that make us do and feel things in our dreams which when we are waking we should drive far, far from our thoughts?  I could hate myself, despise and hate myself for the sake of those dreams since, wretch that I am!  I let him put his arm round me—­and no bitter rage—­ah! no—­something quite different, something exquisitely sweet, thrilled through my soul.”

As she spoke, she clenched her fists and pressed them against her temples; then again her arms dropped languidly into her lap, and shaking her head she went on in an altered and softened voice: 

“Still-it was only in a dream and—­Oh! ye eternal gods—­when we are asleep—­well! and what then?  Has it come to this; to impure thoughts I am adding self-deception!  No, this dream was sent by no demon, it was only a distorted reflection of what I felt yesterday and the day before, and before that even, when the tall stranger looked straight into my eyes—­four times he has done so now—­and then—­how many hours ago, gave me the violets.  Did I even turn away my face or punish his boldness with an angry look?  Is it not sometimes possible to drive away an enemy with a glance?  I have often succeeded when a man has looked after us; but yesterday I could not, and I was as wide awake then as I am at this moment.  What does the stranger want with me?  What is it he asks with his penetrating glance, which for days has followed me wherever I turn, and robs me of peace even in my sleep?  Why should I open my eyes—­the gates of the heart—­to him?  And now the poison poured in through them is seething there; but I will tear it out, and when Irene comes home I will tread the violets into the dust, or leave them with her; she will soon pull them to pieces or leave them to wither miserably—­for I will remain pure-minded, even in my dreams—­what have I besides in the world?”