"Yes," I replied. "To-morrow morning, as you know."
Then followed a long interval of silence. Through the open windows entered a delicious coolness; the rays of the full moon lit up the house and garden; the choir of chirping crickets could be heard, like the sharp and indefinitely distant sound of a flute.
She asked me in a changed voice:
"When will you return? Tell me frankly."
"I do not know," I answered.
There was a new pause. A light breeze came in from time to time, and the curtains swelled; every breath carried into the room as far as us the voluptuousness of that summer night.
"Are you deserting me?"
There was such profound distress in her voice that my studied coolness suddenly gave way to regret and pity.
"No," I answered. "Don't be alarmed, Juliana. I need a little rest. I can stand it no longer. I must have breathing room."
"You are right," she answered.