But the curtain in her stage did not rise, and no song of entreaty came from her hero with the words:
Listen to the pleading of the moonlight, my love, and hide not thy face.
In his dry unmusical voice Gopinath said: ‘Give me your keys.’
A gust of south wind like a sigh of the insulted romance of the poetic world scattered all over the terrace the smell of the night-blooming jasmines, and loosened some wisp of hair on Giribala’s cheek. She let go her pride, and got up and said: ‘You shall have your keys if you listen to what I have to say.’
Gopinath said: ‘I cannot delay. Give me your keys,’
Giribala said: ‘I will give you the keys and everything that is in the safe, but you must not leave me.’
Gopinath said: ‘That cannot be. I have urgent business.’
‘Then you shan’t have the keys,’ said Giribala.
Gopinath began to search for them. He opened the drawers of the dressing-table, broke open the lid of the box that contained Giribala’s toilet requisites, smashed the glass panes of her almirah,
