bore very well. At last—he had not been in the house an hour—he left his chair and went to her.
"I am going away," he said in an undertone. "Good-night!"
She did not seem to hear him. She was speaking to Saint Méran.
"Good-night!" he repeated, in the same tone, not raising it at all, only giving it an intense, concentrated sound.
She turned her face toward him.
"Good-night!" she answered.
And he went away, Ffrench following him to the door with erratic and profuse regrets, which he did not hear at all.
When he got outside, he struck out across the country. The strength with which he held himself in check was a wonder to him. It seemed as if he was not thinking at all—that he did not allow himself to think. He walked fast, it might even be said, violently; the exertion made his head throb and his blood rush through his veins. He walked until at last his heart beat so suffocatingly that he was forced to stop. He threw himself down—almost fell down upon the grass at the wayside and lay with shut eyes. He was giddy and exhausted, and panted for breath. He could not have thought then, if he would; he had gained so much at least. He did not leave the place for an hour. When he did so, it was to walk home by another route, slowly, almost weakly. This route led him by the Briarley cottage, and, as he neared it, he was seized with a fancy for going in. The door was ajar and a light burned in the living-room, and this drew him toward it.
Upon the table stood a basket filled with purchases, and
