sharp word between us, save when I quarrelled bitterly with her brother,
and he left the mill and went away. But she got over that mostly, though
the lad's name was, never mentioned between us. That day I was so hungry
for the sight of her that I got my field-glass--used to watch my vessels
and rafts making across the bay--and trained it on the window where I
knew she sat. I thought, it would amuse her, too, when I went back at
night, if I told her what she had been doing. I laughed to myself at the
thought of it as I adjusted the glass. . . . I looked. . . .
There was no more laughing. . . . I saw her, and in front of her a
man, with his back half on me. I could not recognise him, though at the
instant I thought he was something familiar. I failed to get his face at
all. Hers I found indistinctly. But I saw him catch her playfully by
the chin! After a little they rose. He put his arm about her and kissed
her, and he ran his fingers through her hair. She had such fine golden
hair--so light, and it lifted to every breath. Something got into my
brain. I know now it was the maggot which sent Othello mad. The world
in that hour was malicious, awful. . . .

"After a time--it seemed ages, she and everything had receded so far--
I went . . . home. At the door I asked the servant who had been
there. She hesitated, confused, and then said the young curate of the
parish. I was very cool: for madness is a strange thing; you see
everything with an intense aching clearness--that is the trouble. . . .
She was more kind than common. I do not think I was unusual. I was
playing a part well, my grandmother had Indian blood like yours, Pierre,
and I was waiting. I was even nicely critical of her to myself. I
balanced the mole on her neck against her general beauty; the curve of
her instep, I decided, was a little too emphatic. I passed her backwards
and forwards, weighing her at every point; but yet these two things were
the only imperfections. I pronounced her an exceeding piece of art--and