the lamp burning low. But the long windows were open and their light
curtains swaying in a soft warm wind, so that Longmore immediately
stepped out upon the terrace. There he found Madame de Mauves alone,
slowly pacing its length. She was dressed in white, very simply, and her
hair was arranged not as she usually wore it, but in a single loose coil
and as if she were unprepared for company. She stopped when she saw her
friend, showed some surprise, uttered an exclamation and stood waiting
for him to speak. He tried, with his eyes on her, to say something, but
found no words. He knew it was awkward, it was offensive, to stand
gazing at her; but he couldn't say what was suitable and mightn't say
what he wished. Her face was indistinct in the dim light, but he felt
her eyes fixed on him and wondered what they expressed. Did they warn
him, did they plead, or did they confess to a sense of provocation? For
an instant his head swam; he was sure it would make all things clear to
stride forward and fold her in his arms. But a moment later he was still
dumb there before her; he hadn't moved; he knew she had spoken, but he
hadn't understood.

"You were here this morning," she continued; and now, slowly, the
meaning of her words came to him. "I had a bad headache and had to shut
myself up." She spoke with her usual voice.

Longmore mastered his agitation and answered her without betraying
himself. "I hope you're better now."

"Yes, thank you, I'm better--much better."

He waited again and she moved away to a chair and seated herself. After
a pause he followed her and leaned closer to her, against the balustrade
of the terrace. "I hoped you might have been able to come out for the