moment he stood beside the body, panting, then he went to the other room
and, bringing a candle, looked at the dead thing in silence. Presently
he stooped, held the candle to the wide-staring eyes, then felt the
heart. "He is gone," he said in an even voice. Stooping for the knife
he had dropped on the floor, he laid it on the body. He looked at his
hands. There was one spot of blood on his fingers. He wiped it off with
his handkerchief, then blowing out the light, he calmly opened the door
of the hut, locked it, went out, and moved on slowly towards the house.

As he left the hut he was conscious that some one was moving under the
trees by the window, but his mind was not concerned with things outside
himself and the one other thing left for him to do.

He entered the house and went in search of Madelinette. When he reached
the drawing-room, surrounded by eager listeners, she was beginning to
sing. Her bearing was eager and almost tremulous, for, with this crowd
round her and in the flush of this gaiety and excitement, there was
something of that exhilarating air that greets the singer upon the stage.
Her eyes were shining with a look, half-sorrowful, half-triumphant.
Within the past half-hour she had overcome herself; she had fought down
the blind, wild rebellion that, for one moment as it were, had surged up
in her heart. She was proud and glad, and piteous and triumphant and
deeply womanly all at once.

Going to the piano she had looked round for Louis, but he was not
visible. She smiled to herself, however, for she knew that her singing
would bring him--he worshipped it. Her heart was warm towards him,
because of that moment when she rebelled and was hard at soul. She
played her own accompaniment, and he was hidden from her by the piano
as she sang--sang more touchingly and more humanly, if not more