bridge. What did anything matter in the world? Time must be got
through, simply got through until ten o'clock--that was all.

At half-past nine he strode out and sat upon the bench. His thoughts
went back in a constant review of the day. How she had looked, where
they had sat, what she had said. Why her eyes seemed green in the wood
and blue on the water. Why her voice had all those tones in it. Why
she had been old and young, and wise and childish. Then he thought of
the story of Undine and the lady's strange, snake's look when she had
said: "I do not know men?--You think not, Paul?"

His heart gave a great bound at the remembrance. He permitted himself
no speculation as to where he was drifting. He just sat there
thrilling in every limb and every sense and every quality of his
brain.

As the clocks chimed the hour something told him she was there above
him, although he heard no sound.

Not a soul was in sight in this quiet corner. He bounded on to the
bench to be nearer--if she should come. If she were there hiding in
the shadows. This was maddening--unbearable. He would climb the
balustrade to see. Then out of the blackest gloom came a laugh of
silver. A soft laugh that was almost a caress. And suddenly she crept
close and leant down over the ivy.

"Paul," she whispered. "I have come, you see, to wish
you--good-night!"

Paul stood up to his full height. He put out his arms to draw her to