She came the following day. With her deep eyes, her deep voice and
her singing youth.
I feared her coming; I tried to hope that she would not come. No
sooner had I caught sight of her than my heart began to pound
excitedly.
She had again arrived just after my wife had left the house. Had she
watched for her to leave? How long had she been lurking outside? I
asked her and she laughed.
Oh, what was the difference! She had waited much longer before coming
to me for the first time. The thought of using the manuscript as a
pretext had been slow to suggest itself to her.
But—wouldn’t I prefer to come to her? She had her own room. She might
receive any one she pleased; she was perfectly free.
She said all this so simply. So sweetly, so innocently, so
naturally,—with that deep velvety voice of hers, and her fathomless
eyes and her intense youth.
I wanted to cry out, No! I felt with all my being that I should say
No. But at the same time I knew that the struggle was in vain.
She had ignited something within me, and I was all aflame,—burning,
burning.
She seized me in an embrace and pressed upon my lips a long,
passionate kiss. Within me, my being shouted, sang and exulted.