But a week later he returned to the subject sort of by the way. "You ought to go there again after all, uncle." "Are you crazy, boy?" I said, though I felt as good as if a woman's soft warm hand were tickling the nape of my neck. "You needn't mention me," he said, examining the tips of his boots, "but if you go there several times, perhaps things will gradually right themselves." Gentlemen, you couldn't have broken a reed more easily than my resolution. So I drove over again. And again and again. I would let old Krakow go on with his vapourings, and I'd drink the coffee his wife made for me, and listen devoutly while Iolanthe sang her loveliest songs, even though music--in general--well, the oftener I visited Krakowitz the uncannier the business became, but something always tugged me back again. I couldn't help myself. The old Adam in me, before going to sleep forever, wanted a Last Supper, even if it consisted of nothing but the pleasant sensation of a woman's nearness. In the depths of my soul I had no hopes of anything beyond that. To be sure, Iolanthe continued to cast furtive glances at me, but what they indicated--whether a reproach, a cry for help, or merely the wish to be admired--I never could make out. Then--on my third or fourth visit--the following happened. It was early in the afternoon--blazing hot. From boredom or impatience I drove to Krakowitz. "The Baron and Baroness are asleep," said the lackey, "but the young lady is on the verandah." I began to suspect all sorts of things, and my heart started to thump. I wanted to go back home again, but when I saw her standing there, tall and snowy white in her mull dress, as if chiselled in marble, my old asininity came upon me again, stronger than ever. "How nice of you to come, Baron," she said. "I've been frightfully bored. Let's go take a walk in the garden. There's a cool arbour where we can have a pleasant chat without being disturbed." When she put her arm in mine, I began to tremble. I tell you, climbing a hill under fire was easier than going down those steps. She said nothing--I said nothing. The atmosphere grew heavier. The gravel crunched under our tread, the bees buzzed about the spiraea bushes. Nothing else to be heard far or near. She clung to my arm quite confidentially, and every now and then made me stop when she pulled out a weed or plucked a piece of mignonette to tickle her nose with for an instant and then throw it away. "I wish I loved flowers," she said. "There are so many people who love flowers, or say they love them. In love affairs you can never get at the truth." "Why not?" I asked. "Don't you think it ever happens that two human beings like each other and say so--quite simply--without design or ulterior motives?" "Like each other--like each other," she said tauntingly. "Are you such an icicle that you translate 'love' by 'like'?" "Unfortunately, whether I am an icicle or not no longer matters," I answered.