were played into each other's hands by human kindness and damnable
propinquity. The man, manlike, felt no real danger, because nothing was
said--after everything had been said for all time at the hut on Vadrome
Mountain. He had not realised the true situation, because of late her
voice, like his, had been even and her hand cool and steady. He had not
noticed that her eyes were like hungry fires, eating up her face--eating
away its roundness, and leaving a pathetic beauty behind.

It seemed to him that because there was silence--neither the written word
nor the speaking look--that all was well. He was hugging the chain of
denial to his bosom, as though to say, "This way is safety"; he was
hiding his face from the beacon-lights of her eyes, which said: "This way
is home."

Home? Pictures of home, of a home such as Maximilian Cour painted in his
music, had passed before him now and then since that great day on Vadrome
Mountain. A simple fireside, with frugal but comfortable fare; a few
books; the study of the fields and woods; the daily humble task over
which he could meditate as his hands worked mechanically; the happy face
of a happy woman near--he had thought of home; and he had put it from
him. No matter what the temptation, his must be, perhaps for ever, the
bed and board unshared. He had had his chance in the old days, and he
had thrown it away with insolent indifference, and an unpardonable
contempt for the opinion of the world.

Now, with a blind fatuousness which had nothing to do with his old
intellectual power, but was evidence of a primitive life of feeling, had
vaguely imagined that because there were no clinging hands, or stolen
looks, or any vow or promise, that all might go on as at present--upon
the surface. With a curious absence of his old accuracy of observation