I need not tell you any more, the story is so old, so old.
For many weeks after that night I knew nothing. I was mad, I believe. They say so. I cannot tell; I remember nothing; only that blank deserted room, and the great mass of white roses, and the lamp with the little crucifix under it, and the empty chair with the lace-work that had fallen beside it, all unfinished and untangled. I can see that always, always.
She had gone without any word or any sign; and yet it was all so plain. Everyone had foreseen it, so they said—everyone except myself.
From that night nothing more was ever seen or heard in that place of him or of her: the people of the house knew nothing; so at least they said. But on the floor, under the mirror, there was a torn letter, which had been forgotten or mislaid.
Not many words were in it, but they were words enough to tell me that when she had kissed me on the mouth, and smiled, and sent me on my way to play in my new part that evening at sunset, she had known that when the night fell she would betray me.
It is a woman's way, they say.
I might be really mad: they told me that I was; it may be so. I think it was quite late in autumn when I had any sense or consciousness of what I
