His thoughts always broke off at a certain point. It seemed so hopeless, so foolish. Until he had won some kind of position for himself it was madness to think of love. At present he was working on borrowed capital, and there was always before him the grim possibility that he might fail, and failure meant the end of all things for him. Felix Muller should never have reason to doubt his courage or his honour.
Then he would start again, dreaming of Madeline. The two preceding days had seemed painfully long. He had listened for her footsteps from noon to night. He had watched for her coming more than they who wait for the morning. He had pictured her smile a thousand times, and felt the warm pressure of her hand in his.
When at length she glided into the room his heart was too full for speech. How bright she was, how winsome, how overflowing with life and vivacity! The gloom and chill of autumn went out of the room as if by magic, and the air was full of the perfume of spring violets and the warmth of summer sunshine.
She pulled off her gloves and threw them on the table and seated herself in a chair near him.
"Have you been very dull these last two or three days?" she questioned.
"Rather," he answered. "You see, the fine weather has come to a sudden end."
"But I guess it will soon clear up again, though I am told your English climate is not to be relied upon."
"The only certain thing about it is its glorious uncertainty."
"Well, there may be advantages in that; there's always a certain interest in not knowing. Don't you think so?"
"Most things have their compensations," he said, with a smile.