his hand at the foulness of blood and hair upon it. "But I was almost
thinking I should miss the boat."



II

THE SENSE OF CLIMAX

It was in the fall of the year that Truda Schottelius on tour came to
that shabby city of Southern Russia. Nowadays, the world remembers
little of her besides her end, which stirred it as Truda Schottelius
could always stir her audience; but in those days hers was a fame
that had currency from Paris to Belgrade, and the art of drama was
held her debtor.

It was soon after dawn that she looked from her window in the train,
weary with twelve hours of traveling, and saw the city set against
the pale sky, unreal and remote like a scene in a theatre, while
about it the flat land stretched vacant and featureless. The light
was behind it, and it stood out in silhouette like a forced effect,
and Truda, remarking it, frowned, for of late she found herself
impatient of forced effects. She was a pale, slender, brown-haired
woman, with a small clear, pliant face, and some manner of languor in
all her attitudes that lent them a slow grace of their own and did
not at all impair the startling energy she could command for her
work. While she looked out at the city there came a tap at the door
of her compartment, and her maid entered with tea. Behind her, a
little drawn in that early hour, came Truda's manager, Monsieur
Vaucher.