take care of itself. And by and by the sun went westering down the hill,
and he shook himself out of his dreams, and pocketed his book and turned
homeward. His day, he thought, had not amounted to much after all, and
he would spend the evening in sober study, and not dream any more until
bedtime. But he would be sociable this evening and eat his supper--now
he thought about it, it would be dinner and supper combined--in the
company of his colleagues at their favourite haunt. And he would go
to-morrow, he would certainly go to the Engadine.

But to-morrow came, and the Herr Doctor looked out of his window as
usual, and he did not go to Pontresina or anywhere else, nor the next
day, nor the day after. Only up to the Schloss every day through the hot
week, with his book and his pipe, and there he would lie and read and
smoke, and say to himself, "To-morrow I will certainly go." There was
something almost pathetic in Claudius, thus day after day revisiting the
scene where he had experienced a momentary sensation of youth and
vitality, where he had discovered, somewhat to his surprise, that he was
still alive and full of strength and sanguine hope, when he thought
himself so old. And lying among the ruins he called up the scene again
and again, and the strange woman gradually got possession of his mind,
as a cunning enchantress might, and she moulded his thoughts about her
till they clung to her and burned. He did not seriously think to meet
her again in the Schloss, if he thought of it at all, for he knew of
course that she must have been a bird of passage, only pausing an
instant on that hot day to visit some scene long familiar to her memory.
And of course, like a true philosophical student, he did not attempt to
explain to himself his own conduct, nor to catalogue the reasons for and
against a daily visit to the old castle.

So the week passed, and another after it, and one day, late in the