er slightest movement, the
delicate perfume with which she scented her hair, mingled with the
warm emanations that floated on the breeze.

She whispered:

"Simon. . . . Simon. . . ."

He did not reply. His heart was oppressed. Several times she repeated
his name; then, no doubt believing him asleep, she rose and her naked
feet lightly touched the sand. She went out.

What was she going to do? A minute elapsed. There was a sound as of
rustling clothes. Then he heard her footsteps on the beach, followed
almost immediately by the splash of water and the sound of drops
falling in a shower. Dolores was bathing in the darkness.

Simon was next hardly able to detect what was scarcely more
perceptible than the swan's gliding over the surface of the pond. The
silence and peace of the water remained unbroken. Dolores must have
swum towards the centre of the lake. When she returned, he once more
heard the pattering of drops and the rustle of clothes while she
dressed.

He rose suddenly, with the intention of going out before she entered.
But she was quicker than he anticipated and they met on the threshold.
He drew back, while she asked him:

"Were you going, Simon?"

"Yes," he said, seeking a pretext. "I am anxious about the aeroplane
. . . some thief. . . ."

"Yes . . . yes," she said, hesitatingly. "But I should like first
. . . to thank you. . . ."

Their voices betrayed the same embarrassment and the same profound
agitation. The darkness hid them from each other's eyes; yet how
plainly Simon saw the young woman before him!

"I've behaved as I should to you," he declared.

"Not as other men have done . . . and it is that which touched me.
. . . I was struck by it from the beginning. . . ."

Perhaps she felt by intuition that any too submissive words would
offend him, for she did not continue her confession. Only, after a
moment's pause, she murmured:

"This is our last night alone. . . . Afterwards we shall be parted by
the whole of life . . . by everything. . . . Then . . . hold me tight
to you for a little . . . for a second. . . ."

Simon did not move. She was asking for a display of affection of which
he dreaded the danger all the more because he longed so eagerly to
yield to it and because his will was weakening beneath the onslaught
of evil thoughts. Why should he resist? What would have been a sin and
a crime against love at ordinary times was so no longer at this period
of upheaval, when the play o