LIGHTS yet burned on the lower floors and behind the drawn blinds of Athalie's room. The night was quiet and soft and lovely; the moon still young in its first quarter.
There was no wind to blow the fountain jet, so that every drop fell straight back where the slim column of water broke against a strip of stars above the garden wall. Somewhere in distant darkness the little owl trilled.
If he were walking or motionless he no longer knew it; nor did he seem to be aware of anything around.
Hafiz came up to him through the dusk with a little mew of recognition or of loneliness. Afterward the cat followed him for a while and then settled down upon the grass intent on the invisible stirring stealthily in obscurity.
The fragrance of the iris grew sweeter, fresher. Many new buds had unfolded since high noon. One stalk had fallen across the path and Clive's dragging feet passed over it where he moved blindly, at hazard, with stumbling steps along the path—errant, senseless, and always blind.
For on the garden bench a young girl sat, slender, exquisite, smiling as he approached. But he could not
see her, nor could he see in her arms the little flower-like face, and the tiny hands against her breast.
"Clive!" she said. But he could not hear her.
"Clive," she whispered; "my beloved!"