photographs after those of Mme. Wildenhoff and of the French actress.
The same thought occurred to us both at once, and it cast over us the shadow of a moody silence.
She laid her head on my bosom, and closed her eyes with an expression of the utmost fatigue.
"Don't go on like that," I said to her soothingly. "That way madness lies, and you might easily get there."
"Oh, that is very likely. Indeed I wish I may. Oh, to lose memory, and consciousness, and all feeling!" And then: "For I am everlastingly wringing my own heart, Janka!" she added, very sorrowfully.
Silently, I stroked her long dishevelled hair, and all the while, with tender craving and emotional entrancement, my mind was reverting to Witold.
"Are you my husband's paramour by now?"
It was with some surprise that I was aware the question evoked in me a reaction of outraged dignity. But I choked down the feeling, and unembarrassed, though with downcast eyes, I answered, in a low voice:
"No, not as yet."
