‘Don’t, darling, don’t!’ said Fulvia, almost sharply. ‘Wait till I have done, or I shall not be able to finish it. Though it seemed an eternity, I don’t think I was five minutes in undressing and redressing, and I did such a lot of things: locked up all my jewellery and put the key of my dressing-case into an envelope and addressed it to--its owner, and several other things. Then I stole downstairs, and got out of the house, and flew along the park towards the boat-house and the pond. The moon had come out, and gave me some light. I was bent upon getting there, hearing his voice, throwing myself into his arms. And yet, even as I flew along the path, even in that short time, there came a thought into my mind which all at once caused me to stand still. It was this, that I was going to give away what was not mine--my name and my fame, my honour and my honesty. They were not his--my husband’s--oh, don’t suppose that I was ever weak enough for one moment to think that they were! If there had been only him to consider, or only me! But there are always so many things. I don’t know why it came to me then; but I knew all at once that this self of mine, of which I was going to dispose so arbitrarily, was not really mine. Nothing is really ours to which we have given others a claim by a certain way of living and behaving and conducting ourselves. It was not my own thing--it belonged to you, and to Minna, and to poor little Rhoda even, and to everyone to whom my life heretofore had said, “This is what I am--you may trust me,” and who would ever after be obliged to feel and say, “She lied to us.” Perhaps my being able to stop and think of that, and consider about it, then, showed me to be a cold-hearted creature. I don’t think I am cold-hearted by nature,’ said Fulvia, in a voice whose pathos wrung her hearer’s heart. ‘But--well, I put it away from me. I went on; I said, “I have promised Hans too. He has a claim as well.” But the eagerness was gone. I felt the taste of the dust and ashes. It was not that I was afraid. I don’t know how to explain it; I will not try. I will tell you what happened. I arrived at last at the place. I did not see anyone, though the moon was up. A terrible fear took possession of me. It was all so horrible. Where was he? Certainly not outside. I went into the boat-house at last. It was so dark there that I could see nothing. I called, “Hans!” I had to call once or twice, before at last he answered. He had been worn out with waiting, and had fallen asleep. At last I heard a movement, and his voice said, “Yes?” “Come outside,” said I, “where it is light. I must explain to you.” He rose from the bench on which he had been lying, and followed me outside. “Hans!” I said, and held out my hands. “You told me to be here after nine,” he said. “I was here before. I had given you up. I thought you were fooling me.” “Oh, Hans, I could not help it. It has been so awful,” I told him. “Don’t look at me like that--so coldly, so cruelly.