that ladies ever put on powder. But if SHE did--then it must be right!
And his eyes never left her. He saw the young German violinist hovering
round her, even dancing with her twice; watched her dancing with others,
but all without jealousy, without troubling; all in a sort of dream.
What was it? Had he been bewitched into that queer state, bewitched by
the gift of that flower in his coat? What was it, when he danced with
her, that kept him happy in her silence and his own? There was
no expectation in him of anything that she would say, or do--no
expectation, no desire. Even when he wandered out with her on to the
terrace, even when they went down the bank and sat on a bench above the
fields where the peasants had been scything, he had still no feeling but
that quiet, dreamy adoration. The night was black and dreamy too, for
the moon was still well down behind the mountains. The little band was
playing the next waltz; but he sat, not moving, not thinking, as if all
power of action and thought had been stolen out of him. And the scent of
the flower in his coat rose, for there was no wind. Suddenly his heart
stopped beating. She had leaned against him, he felt her shoulder press
his arm, her hair touch his cheek. He closed his eyes then, and turned
his face to her. He felt her lips press his mouth with a swift, burning
kiss. He sighed, stretched out his arms. There was nothing there but
air. The rustle of her dress against the grass was all! The flower--it,
too, was gone.


X


Not one minute all that night did Anna sleep. Was it remorse that kept
her awake, or the intoxication of memory? If she felt that her kiss had
been a crime, it was not against her husband or herself, but against the