, not the
word which he was waiting for, and trying to make her say. Then he
burst out, 'If you love me, Antonia, let me go. I must make a living for
myself and mine. Society would not forgive my living on the bounty of a
woman who is not and never will be my wife.'

She understood, and closed her eyes as if on the brink of an abyss. In
the long silence that followed was heard all over the park the falling
of the leaves in the breeze, some still heavy with sap, dropping in
bunches from bough to bough, others stealing down with a scarcely
audible sound, like the rustling of a dress. Round the little hut, under
the maples, it was more like the pattering footsteps of some voiceless
crowd which moved around. She rose with a shiver. 'It is cold; let us go
in.' She had made her sacrifice. It would kill her, very probably, but
the world should not see the degradation of the Duchess Padovani into
Madame Paul Astier, who had married her architect.

Paul spent the evening in making the obvious arrangements for his
departure. He gave orders about his luggage, bestowed princely
gratuities upon the servants, and inquired about the time of the trains,
chatting away without constraint, but quite unsuccessful in breaking
through the gloomy silence of the fair Antonia, who read with absorbed
attention a magazine, of which she did not turn the pages. But when he
took his leave of her and thanked her for her prolonged and gracious
hospitality, in the light of the huge lace lamp-shade he saw on her
haughty face a look of anguish, and in her eyes, magnificent as those of
a dying lion, a beseeching supplication.

When he reached his room the young man looked to see that the door
to the smoking-room was bolted; then he put out his light and waited,
sitting quite still on the divan close to the communication. If she did
not come, he had made a mistake and must begin again. But there was a
slight noise in the private passage, the sound of a gown, then after a
momentary surprise at not being able to come straight in, a touch with
the tip of a finger, scarcely a knock. He did not move, and paid no
attention to a little significant coughing. Then he heard her go away,
with an agitated, uneven step.

'Now,' thought he, 'she is mine. I can do what I like with her.' And he
went quietly to bed.

'If I were called the Prince d'Athis, would you not have married me when
your mourning was over? Yet D'Athis did not love you, and Paul Astier
does. Pro