always as she suddenly felt for him now, perhaps he would not have been so self-centred, perhaps he would have retained his sanity.
"No, Ernst," she confessed, "I never came to see you. It wasn't nice of me, was it?"
"No, it wasn't nice of you," he said. "For I'm very fond of you, Constance."
Her heart began to fail her. Her breath came in gasps; her eyes filled with tears. She put her arm over his shoulder and, without restraining her emotion, she cried:
"Did we all leave you so much alone, Ernst?"
"No," he said, quietly, "I am never alone. They are all of them around me, always. There are some of every century. Sometimes they are magnificently dressed and sing with exquisite voices. But latterly," mournfully shaking his head, "latterly they have not been like that. They are all grey, like ghosts; they no longer sing their beautiful tunes; they weep and wail and gnash their teeth. They used to come out into the middle of the room . . . and laugh and sing and glitter. But now, oh, Constance, I don't know what they suffer, but they suffer something terrible . . . a purgatory! They crowd round me, they suffocate me, till I can't draw my breath. . . . Hush, there they are, waking again! . . ."
"No, Ernst, no, Ernst, they're asleep!"
He turned to her with a knowing laugh:
