This idea that he had not wished to have her with him on his walk, that he had preferred to go out alone this beautiful night, alone, with a cigar in his mouth, for she could see its fiery-red point—alone, when he might have given her the joy of taking her with him; this idea that he had not continual need of her, that he did not desire her always, created within her soul a new fermentation of bitterness.
She was about to close the window, that she might not see him or be tempted to call to him, when he raised his eyes and saw her.
“Well, are you star-gazing, Countess?”
“Yes,” she answered. “You also, as it appears.”
“Oh, I am simply smoking.”
She could not resist the desire to ask: “Why did you not tell me you were going out?”
“I only wanted to smoke a cigar. I am coming in now.”
“Then good-night, my friend.”
“Good-night, Countess.”
She retired as far as her low chair, sat down in it and wept; and her maid, who was called to assist her to bed, seeing her red eyes said with compassion: