The silence in the house was noticeable. And the undisturbed order everywhere was almost distressing. It was as if the furniture were never used. A door opened cautiously and was shut again equally carefully. A carefully deadened step approached the room, and Philip entered, alone. “This _is_ nice! It’s awfully good of you,” he said cordially, giving me both his hands. But after the first greeting I noticed an embarrassment in his manner, a something which had never been part of his character before. With a certain formal politeness, he explained to me that his wife was ill, but that he would go and see if she would not feel equal to a word with me. After some time he returned, alone, as before. “Theresa asks that you will do us the pleasure of dining with us to-morrow.” Then he suggested that he and I should spend the evening in a concert garden. Several hours passed happily under the green trees, cheered with the sound of pleasantly distant music, and enlivened by one of our old-time conversations. Philip became quite himself again. He had the nature of a poet, who can form anew for himself the ancient dreams of all mankind. And he was something of a reformer also. As he described to me what his ideal of life would be, an existence without family ties, without exacting sentimentality and excitement, a life of pure calm beauty, I could not avoid the question: “But what in the world can you do with all this part of your nature in your present existence?” A second later I was sorry for what I had said; his smile was like an expression of pain. Toward noon the following day Philip called on me at the hotel. His eyes were dull, his spiritual, mobile features were dead and set in heavy lines. “I must ask your pardon,” he murmured. “Theresa does not feel well enough yet to see anybody. I thought as much yesterday.” I inquired sympathetically as to the trouble. “She could pull herself together perfectly well. But she won’t. She won’t do it, just because it would please me,” he murmured in suppressed anger, throwing back his head impatiently, with a moan as of pain. “And I--I need joy and merriment--and brightness-- And--you saw what it was yesterday. That’s the way it always is now--always.” “But you are a physician,” I exclaimed. “Can you not give orders? This shutting herself up is all wrong for a young woman like that.” He burst out into a loud, bitter laugh. “A physician?-- Why, she thinks I’m ill and she is well-- And that isn’t all-- She never can forgive me for our child’s death--” He stared out ahead of him as if he were looking into a world of misery. “But how dare she?” I whispered. “A thing like that--is fate.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I am a physician--I should have helped.”