It is the sign!
With one hand over her heart she approaches it again. She takes out of the box and puts on the table a skull. . . . She stares at it a long while, and then turns with a shiver.
How cold it is here! Where are the lights?
She is compelled to look again.
I had never thought of death. My heart is cold, too. The chill of the grave is on me. Was I ever in love? It seems strange to remember. What is his name? I almost have forgotten. And he is waiting for me. I will show him this. We should have looked at it together. . . .
A silence, as her mood changes.
So he had planned it! He wanted to cast the chill of the grave upon our love. He saw it all as though he had been here. He sent us— this! How well he knew me—better than I knew myself. An old man's cunning! To stop my pulses throbbing with love, and put out the fever in my eyes. A trick! Yes, but it suffices. One look into the eyeless face of Death turns me to ashes. I am no longer fit for love. . . .
She turns to the door.
Why does he not come for his answer?
She looks for a lingering moment toward the door, and then turns back again to the table. Her mood changes again.