--You are mine. All else is trampled out in the march of my love.... She would not have it so. She stood there sorrowing. I took her hand, and her touch said: “He is murdered.” It was a film, viscous between us. But still I could say nothing. I held her hand: I dared not loose it just because it said: “He is murdered.” Why should I be downed by that? Whether it helped or no what did it avail against my mastering need? But the touch of her limp hand spoke, spoke again. My clasp fought vainly, drawing in the foe, in the attempt to shut him out. Mildred withdrew her hand, and left in mine the word of her own: “Philip is murdered.” I forced myself to say: “I will leave you, love. I cannot help you now. You will want to be alone.” She nodded and her eyes avoided mine. “It is terrible,” she spoke in a voice strangely casual and high. “Who could have murdered Philip? Sweet, gentle Philip. Great Philip. I am all dazed. We spoke of murder in his room, that day.” “You spoke of murder?” “Philip said to me: ‘You are the woman for whom man kills. I could kill for you, Mildred.’” “Dear, even the past is drawn into the dark design of an event that sweeps us. Philip was rich----?” “I know.” She did not like my reasoning. “I am dazed. I want to go to bed ... and to sleep. Leave me, John.” Still her eyes kept from my own. She had been glorious in my need of her. Now shattered and distraught with the shadow on her fragrance, she was almost ugly. Her arms were thin as she twisted her hands together and her neck was long: and her eyes drooped heavy down. --Why is she ugly? I did not love her less. The ugliness I felt was a pain added to the joy of loving her. And then, a dim sense came. It was to grow ever less dim.--She is befouled with a thought! And that thought is my own. She has been fair like a dawn with the dawn of my love and now my thought clouds her. --Why is she dark? Because this murder will concern me!... So much I knew an instant, and forgot. I left her. _e_ I am home. The lamp reveals my study, sharp: a changeling! White curtains in the deep-set latticed windows, shelves of books, the couch right angle to the open hearth, the low gray ceiling ... nothing is moved yet everything is changed. A glow like fever hushes in the shadow, the dull familiar things swell with vibrance into a dimension new like an omen. I sit down, carefully folding my coat.--No wonder. What a shock! What a night. I huddle in my dressing gown and greet the smoke of my pipe.--No wonder. I take my book. --Better read. Above my shoulder, as I sit with the lamp close on the plain pine table is a separate shelf: books on astrology. The book I hold is bound in ivory parchment, cracked: the Gothic type stands bold on the soft paper.