boy--the murder of illusion, of something sacred. But she could not help
feeling a delirious happiness too, and the thought of trying to annul
what she had done did not even occur to her.

He was ready, then, to give her a little love! Ever so little, compared
to hers, but still a little! There could be no other meaning to that
movement of his face with the closed eyes, as if he would nestle it down
on her breast.

Was she ashamed of her little manoeuvres of these last few days--ashamed
of having smiled at the young violinist, of that late return from the
mountain climb, of the flower she had given him, of all the conscious
siege she had laid since the evening her husband came in and sat
watching her, without knowing that she saw him? No; not really ashamed!
Her remorse rose only from the kiss. It hurt to think of that, because
it was death, the final extinction of the mother-feeling in her; the
awakening of--who knew what--in the boy! For if she was mysterious to
him, what was he not to her, with his eagerness, and his dreaminess,
his youthful warmth, his innocence! What if it had killed in him trust,
brushed off the dew, tumbled a star down? Could she forgive herself for
that? Could she bear it if she were to make him like so many other boys,
like that young violinist; just a cynical youth, looking on women as
what they called 'fair game'? But COULD she make him into such--would
he ever grow like that? Oh! surely not; or she would not have loved
him from the moment she first set eyes on him and spoke of him as 'an
angel.'

After that kiss--that crime, if it were one--in the dark she had not
known what he had done, where gone--perhaps wandering, perhaps straight
up to his room. Why had she refrained, left him there, vanished out