She played for an hour or so, and then came and sat by me on a low
divan by the fire. We were silent for a long while in the gathering
gloom, whilst a thousand thoughts chased each other swiftly through my
brain, as I endeavoured to summon up courage to say what I had
determined I must say before I left her, perhaps for ever.

At last, when only her profile was visible against the glow of the
logs, I spoke.

I told her quietly, calmly and almost dispassionately that I had grown
to love her and that to me she was life itself. I told her that I had
tried not to speak until I could endure no longer.

She sat very still as I spoke, and when I had finished there was a long
silence and I gently stretched out my hand and stroked her lovely black
hair. At last she rose and with averted face walked across the room,
and stood looking at the storm through the big bow windows. I watched
her, but did not dare follow.

At length she returned to me, and I saw what I had instinctively known
the whole time--that she had been crying. I could not think why.

She put her arms round my neck, kissed me on the forehead and murmured,
"Poor Karl."

I felt crushed; I dared not move for fear of breaking the magic of the
moment, yet I longed to know more; I felt overwhelmed by some colossal
mystery that seemed to be enveloping me in its folds. Why did she pity
me? Why did she weep? Why didn't she answer my avowal? Why didn't she
tell me something? Such were some of the problems that perplexed me.