gone. She was like a person drowning, who clings to a rock; and the waves dash against him, and beat upon his bleeding hands with human malice as if to tear them from their refuge.
Instead of going to the sketch-class, which was held at six in the evening, she hurried to the address that Oliver Haddo had given. She went along the crowded street stealthily, as though afraid that someone would see her, and her heart was in a turmoil. She desired with all her might not to go, and sought vehemently to prevent herself, and yet withal she went. She ran up the stairs and knocked at the door. She remembered his directions distinctly. In a moment Oliver Haddo stood before her. He did not seem astonished that she was there. As she stood on the landing it occurred to her suddenly that she had no reason to offer for her visit, but his words saved her from any need for explanation.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said.
Haddo led her into a sitting-room. He had an apartment in a maison meublée, and the heavy hangings, the solid vulgar furniture of that sort of house in Paris, was unexpected in connection with him. The surroundings were so commonplace that they seemed to emphasize his singularity. There was a peculiar lack of comfort, which showed that he was indifferent to material things. The room was large, but so cumbered that it gave a cramped impression. Haddo dwelt there as if he were apart from any habitation that might be his. He moved cautiously among the heavy furniture, and his
