"Well?"
"And then this morning, when I got here—I think I ran all the way; I am sure I did, for I saw people staring at me as I passed—to be met by Annunziata with the news that they were gone! I did not believe her; I laughed in her face, and then she grew angry, and bid me come in and see for myself! And I rushed past her, in here, with my arms stretched out, confident that in one short moment more she would be filling them, and instead of her"—dropping upon his knees by the table with a groan—"I find this!"—dashing the note upon the floor—"all that she leaves me to fill my embrace instead of her is this poor little pillow, that still seems to keep a faint trace of the perfume of her delicate head!"
He buries his own in it again as he speaks, beginning afresh to sob loudly.
Jim stands beside him, his mind half full of compassion and half of a burning exasperation, and his body wholly rigid.
"When did they go? at what hour? last night or this morning?"
"This morning early, quite early."
"They have left all their things behind them"—looking round at the room, strewn with the traces of recent and refined occupation.
"Yes"—lifting his wet face out of his cushion—"and at first, seeing everything just as usual, even to her very workbasket—she has left her very workbasket behind—I was quite reassured. I felt certain that they could have gone for only a few hours—for the day perhaps; but——"
He breaks off
"Yes?"