forehead and looked straight in front of him at the green field. But he did not know what he was looking at, he was looking inwards. All the morbid moments of his brooding on the problem of their childlessness passed before his soul. He remembered how he had tormented himself to find the cause of it. And his wife had had . . . she had a child!
He stood, drawing deep breaths.
What was passing in Madga’s mind, if she saw through him? Did she guess that he suspected the fault to be hers? And she had to bear the blame in silence.
He was overcome by remorse. He now realized fully how difficult the moment of their meeting would be.
Ivan Hron started off again along the edge of the field; he did not care whither he was going, he only sought for an escape from the labyrinth of his thoughts. He counted neither moments nor hours, he did not know how long he had been wandering about, when the setting sun reminded him that night was approaching.
He turned back towards Prague hurriedly, without minding by which road he went, noticing nothing by the way. From the
