since you have known English?" she asked, as she noticed that her
husband's attention seemed to be fixed upon a volume of Lord Byron's
poems.

Bergenheim threw the book on the table, raised his head and gazed calmly
at his wife. In spite of all his efforts, his face had assumed an
expression which would have frightened her if she had noticed it, but her
eyes were fastened upon the cup which he was twisting in his hand as if
it were made of clay.

"Mon Dieu! Christian, what is the matter with you? What are you doing to
my poor cup?" she asked, with surprise mingled with a little of that
fright which is so prompt to be aroused if one feels not above reproach.

He arose and put the misshapen bronze upon the table.

"I do not know what ails me to-night," said he, "my nerves are unstrung.
I will leave you, for I need rest myself. I shall start to-morrow
morning before you are up, and I shall return Wednesday."

"Not any later, I hope," she said, with that soft, sweet voice, from
which, in such circumstances, very few women have the loyalty to abstain.

He went out without replying, for he feared he might be no longer master
of himself; he felt, when offered this hypocritical, almost criminal,
caress, as if he would like to end it all by killing her on the spot.