"I hope mother hasn't noticed that my room's empty. No, of course not; she must be in bed long ago. Will you take me back to my room, Augustin?"
"Yes," said I.
She came up to me, looked at me for a moment, then bent down to me as I sat in my chair and kissed my forehead.
"You're a dear boy," she said. "Was I quite mad?"
"I meant what I said," I declared, as I stood up. "I mean it still."
"Ah," said she, flinging her hands out, "poor Augustin, you mean it still! Take me along the corridor, dear, I'm afraid to go alone."
Sometimes I blame myself that I submitted to the second mood as completely as I had responded to the first; but I was staggered by the change, and the old sense of distance scattered for an hour was enveloping me again.
One protest I made.
"Are we to do nothing, then?" I asked in a low whisper.
"We're to go to our beds like good children," said she with a mournful little smile. "Come, take me to mine."