worth. At first, like a cadence that repeats itself, its tones rose
and fell, but with more subtle inflections than the ordinary voice
has: there was a note in it that might have belonged to a child's
voice; another, more primitive, that betrayed feeling with as little
reserve as the cry of an animal. Then it sank, and went on in a
monotone, like a Hebrew prayer, as if reiterating things worn
threadbare by repetition, and already said too often. Gradually, it
died away in the surrounding silence. There was no response but a
gentle rustling of the leaves overhead. It began anew, and, in the
interval, seemed to have gained in intensity; now there was a
bitterness in it which, when it swelled, made it give out a tone like
the roughly touched strings of an instrument; it seemed to be
accusing, to be telling of unmerited suffering. And, this time, it
elicited a reply, but a casual, indifferent one, which might have
related to the weather, or to the time of night. Louise gave a shrill
laugh, and then, as plainly as if the words were being carved in stone
before his eyes, Maurice heard her say: "You have never given me a
moment's happiness."

As before, no answer was returned, and almost immediately his ear
caught a muffled sound of footsteps. At the same moment, a night-wind
shook the tree-tops; there was a general fluttering and swaying around
him; and he came back to himself to find that he was standing rigid,
holding on to a slender tree that grew close by the path. His first
conscious thought was that this wind meant rain . . . there would be
another storm in the night . . . and the summer holidays--time of
partings--were at the door. She would go away . . . and he would perhaps
never see her again.

Since the evening they had walked home from the theatre together, he