hands moved toward the usual hour in slow, unhurried fashion.

Several times already he had almost raised the convex glass over the
two golden arrows turning so slowly, in order to push the larger one on
toward the figure it was approaching so lazily. It seemed to him that
this would suffice to make the door open, and that the expected one
would appear, deceived and brought to him by this ruse. Then he smiled
at this childish, persistent, and unreasonable desire.

At last he asked himself this question: "Could I become her lover?"
This idea seemed strange to him, indeed hardly to be realized or even
pursued, because of the complications it might bring into his life. Yet
she pleased him very much, and he concluded: "Decidedly I am in a very
strange state of mind."

The clock struck, and this reminder of the hour made him start, striking
on his nerves rather than his soul. He awaited her with that impatience
which delay increases from second to second. She was always prompt, so
that before ten minutes should pass he would see her enter. When the ten
minutes had elapsed, he felt anxious, as at the approach of some grief,
then irritated because she had made him lose time; finally, he realized
that if she failed to come it would cause him actual suffering. What
should he do? Should he wait for her? No; he would go out, so that if,
by chance, she should arrive very late, she would find the studio empty.

He would go out, but when? What latitude should he allow her? Would
it not be better to remain and to make her comprehend, by a few coldly
polite words, that he was not one to be kept waiting. And suppose she
did not come? Then he would receive a despatch, a card, a servant or
a messenger. If she did not come, what should he do? It would be a day