On the third evening she lay in wait for him. Polly and Mrs. Russell had gone to bed, and he hadn’t returned yet from a lecture he was giving in the village; so she turned out the light in her room and sat in the dark, with the door open, waiting. It was a melancholy October night. The leaves from the linden rustled against her window as they were blown from the branches, and a constant, monotonous, low wind blew, with a sound like rain. She sat as still as a spider in a web, grim, unhappy, filled with apprehension. In the course of time he came in. She saw him hurry down the hall in his wet ulster and cap, and go into his own room. She was after him before he had time to close the door. "I want to speak to you!" she said. "Why didn’t you let me? Don’t you want to see me?" "No," he said. "No, Angelica, I don’t." He hadn’t even removed his cap. He put his hand on the knob of the door. "You shouldn’t have come here," he said. "Some one might see you." "I don’t care! I want to know. What’s the matter? What’s happened?" "I hoped," he said quietly, "that you’d let it drop without an explanation which is bound to be painful for both of us." "I want to know where I stand. I want you to _say_." "Sit down," he said. "I suppose we’ll have to have it out." She did sit down, and waited while he took off his wet things, brushed his hair, and put on a smoking-jacket. She was interested by his room; for a few moments it distracted her unhappy heart. It was a curious room splendidly furnished in black and gold enamel. There was a sort of Chinese idea about it, shockingly adulterated by European luxury; long mirrors, armchairs upholstered in purple, great bookcases, a black and gray velvet rug on the polished floor, a marvelous lacquer screen concealing the bed, a little stand on which was a tea-set of pale gray porcelain with an odd black design. There were pictures on the wall--shocking, startling things, obscene subjects in brilliant colours; and in the corner a great ebony crucifix. This exotic and voluptuous setting dismayed her. It proclaimed a Vincent of whom she knew nothing, and whom she could never comprehend. How in Heaven’s name was she to understand the poetic side of the man, she so unpoetic, so crude? A man with tea-sets and crucifixes and such pictures! He sat down opposite to her in a low, cushioned chair, his head bent, his hands clasped between his knees. Her foolish eyes could see, with tears, that rough, bright hair, those fine, strong hands. "Angelica," he began, not looking at her, "I’ve been a coward with you. I’ve shirked this, because it is so intolerably hard to do." She waited in anguish, with no idea of what she was to hear.