"Yes," he whispered, "you are kind, you love them, you are sorry for them . . . you let them sleep . . . you don't wake them. . . ."
And they sat quietly together for a moment, without speaking, she with her arm round his shoulder.
"What a lot of pretty things you have, Ernst!" she said, looking round the room.
"Yes," he said, "I collected them . . . gradually, very gradually. There was one in every piece."
"Ernst," she said, gently, "perhaps it would be a good thing if you went to the country this summer."
At once he seemed to stiffen and shrink under her touch, as though all his limbs were becoming tense and stark:
"I won't leave here," he said.
"Ernst, it would be so good for you. Do you know Nunspeet?"
She felt him go rigid; and he looked at her angrily and harshly:
"The doctor wants to get me to Nunspeet," he answered, craftily. He laughed scornfully: "I know all about it. You people think I'm mad. But I'm not mad," he went on, haughtily. "You people are stupid: stupid and mad is what you are. You see nothing and hear nothing, you with your dull brute senses; and then you just think, because some one
