The Works were still closed, and would not be re-opened for some weeks, but he had obtained permission to go down to his room, and remove his possessions if he chose. So on the morning of this last day he let himself into his "den," and shut himself up in it. Once behind the closed doors, he began a strange labor. He emptied drawers and desk, and burnt every scrap of paper to ashes--drawings, letters, all! Then he destroyed the delicate models and every other remnant of his past labors. There was not so much as an envelope or blotting-pad remaining. When he had done he had made a clean sweep. The room was empty, cold, and bare. He sat down, at last, in the midst of its desolate orderliness. At that moment a hand was laid upon the door-handle and the door opened; there was a rustle of a woman's dress--and Rachel Ffrench stood before him. "What are you doing here, in Heaven's name?" he said, rising slowly to meet her. She cast one glance around the bare room. "It is true! You are going away!" "Yes," he answered, "I am going. I have done my last work here to-day." She made a step forward and stood looking at him. She spoke under her breath. "Every one is going. My father has left me--I----" A scarlet spot came out on her cheek, but she did not withdraw her eyes. "Saint Meran has gone also." Gradually, as she looked at him, the blood receded from her face and left it like a mask of stone. "I"--she began, in a sharp whisper, "do you not see? Do you not understand! Ah--my God!" There was a chair near her and she fell into it, burying her face in the crushed velvet of her mantle as she bowed herself upon the table near. "Hush!" she cried, "do not speak to me! That it should be I who stooped, and for this--for this! That having battled against my folly so long, I should have let it drag me to the dust at last!" Her passionate sobs suffocated her. She could not check or control them. Her slender fingers writhed in their clasp upon each other. "I never thought of _this_, God knows!" he said, hoarsely, "though there have been hours when I could have sworn that you had loved me once. I have thought of all things, but never of this--never that you could repent." She lifted her head. "That _I_ should repent!" she cried. "Repent! Like this!" "No," he returned, "I never thought of that, I swear!" "And it is you," she cried, with scorn,--"_you_ who stand there and look at me and tell me that it is all over!" "Is it _my_ fault that it is all over?" he demanded. "Is it?" "No," she answered, "that is my consolation." He drew nearer to her. "You left me nothing," he said,--"nothing. God knows what saved me--I do not. _You_ loved me? _You_ battled against your love?" He laughed aloud. "I was a madman under your window night after night. Forget it, if you can. I cannot. 'Oh! that I should have stooped for this,' you say. No, it is that I who have loved you should stand here with empty hands!"