ame qui peut-etre te reviendra._"

Her voice had grown weaker since her illness, and she sang with visible
exertion and faulty breathing, but it was still the golden voice of the
Israelitish woman, and there was the same _timbre_ that had attracted
him, and made him speak to her that afternoon in May at the station.

And all that had only happened six months ago! When she had finished
he said nothing in approval, but he asked her to sing again, and she
understood, and was pleased.

"You may thank the Fates for having given you a voice," he told her.
"It's better than a face. It lasts longer. No man having once heard
you would listen to another woman."

It was the first compliment he had ever made her, but Arithelli did not
answer. Her back was turned towards him as she gathered together the
music.

He could see that her whole body was trembling with repressed sobs. If
he could only have been sure they were for him, he would have taken her
in his arms. She was sorry he was going, perhaps, in a way, but not in
the way he wanted. She had become dependent upon him, and he had
filled a certain place in her life. If she made a scene it was
entirely his own fault. Farewells were always a mistake, and he had
been foolish enough to allow her to sing sentimental verses about doves
and people's wandering souls. She was over-tired and over-wrought, and
a woman's tears were more often due to physical than to mental reasons.
So he argued, trying to convince himself, yet knowing all the time that
Arithelli was not one of the women whose emotions are on the surface.

Once before he had seen her cry, and now as then he stood apart. It
was for Vardri to dry her tears.

He glanced at the clock. Of course it was wrong, but he knew by the
shadows that filled the room that it must be time for her to leave if
she was to appear in public again to-night.

He must hurry the interview to a close, for he could not play his part
much longer.

"You ought to be glad to get rid of me, Arithelli. _Vous avez la
chance_! What have I given you but work and grumbles, eh?"

The soft, broken voice answered him:

"I shall feel afraid without you."

"You will have Vardri,--your lover." His tone was brutal as the blow
of a knife. The natural animal jealousy of a man had risen in him
again. When he was between stone walls, she would have the warmth of a
lover's arms; every nerve in his own body would know it, and long for
that