of his betrothed.

It would be bad enough if he had to rap, in case the night latch was
drawn....

The outer door, at least, offered no difficulty. He touched it and it
swung loose on its hinges.

For a moment the mad idea came into his head that--in answer to her
letter--Alice might have foreseen the possibility of his coming.... He
was just about to test, by a light pressure, the knob of the inner
door when, coming from the bed-room, a muffled sound of speech
reached his ear.

One voice was Alice's: the other--his breath stopped. It was not the
maid's. He knew it well. It was the voice of Fritz von Ehrenberg.

It was over then--for him.... And again and again he murmured: "It's
all over."

He leaned weakly against the wall.

Then he listened.

This woman who could not yield with sufficient fervour to the abandon
of passionate speech and action--this was Alice, his Alice, with her
fine sobriety, her philosophic clearness of mind.

And that young fool whose mouth she closed with long kisses of
gratitude for his folly--did he realise the blessedness which had