I knew what was going on then in her soul. I knew that after a brief though anguished conflict, she would that same instant yield to the feeling which she could no longer control.
Suddenly she rose, walked out briskly into the garden and disappeared.
One hour struck … then another; she did not return.
Then I rose, and emerging from the house, I bent my steps to the alley down which—I had no doubt as to that—she had gone.
Everything had grown dark round about; night had already descended. But on the damp sand of the path, gleaming scarlet amid the encircling gloom, a rounded object was visible.
I bent down. It was a young, barely-budded rose. Two hours before I had seen that same rose on her breast.
I carefully picked up the flower which had fallen in the mire, and returning to the drawing-room, I laid it on the table, in front of her arm-chair.
And now, at last, she returned, and traversing the whole length of the room with her light footsteps, she seated herself at the table.
Her face had grown pale and animated; swiftly, with merry confusion, her lowered eyes, which seemed to have grown smaller, darted about in all directions.
She caught sight of the rose, seized it, glanced at its crumpled petals, glanced at me—and her eyes, coming to a sudden halt, glittered with tears.