She noticed my furtive glances toward the door and laughed. She had seen my wife leave the house, she asserted. With a young girl. Was that my daughter? As she spoke she caressed my grey hair and looked at me with those deep eyes full of endearment and desire. And she added, with her velvety, resonant voice, “I detest authors’ wives!” And then: “An artist should not be married. He should be free—for all and each....” I maintained a significant silence. What should I say to her? I must be careful with this woman. She took my hand and examined my fingers. She held them long and tenderly, fondling them with her own thin, warm fingers. Then I had to discourse to her about my creative work, and the touch of her fingers was immensely pleasant, and I spoke with increasing warmth and friendliness, so that she might not release my hands. All at once she leaned forward and kissed me upon the lips, as I was in the middle of a sentence,—in the very middle of a word. Like a flash she disappeared from the room. * * * * * The cat! The cat has again sprung into the room. Naturally, through the same opening in the window-pane. I scold and curse. But this time I’ll not summon the maid. I open the window, seize the cat by the neck and throw her into the street with all my might. I do not see her fall, but I hear her strike the stony pavement far off somewhere. There, now she will hesitate long before she’ll come. That is, if she is able to move at all. I close the window and sigh with relief. But that hole must be stuffed. If it were not for the inclemency of the weather and the lateness of the hour, I would send for the glazier. But for the present it must be stuffed with something. I hunt about, find a newspaper and stop the hole. Now I may calmly give myself once more over to my thoughts. * * * * * A kiss. A bound. Vanished—— She came the following day. With her deep eyes, her deep voice and her singing youth. I feared her coming; I tried to hope that she would not come. No sooner had I caught sight of her than my heart began to pound excitedly. She had again arrived just after my wife had left the house. Had she watched for her to leave? How long had she been lurking outside? I asked her and she laughed. Oh, what was the difference! She had waited much longer before coming to me for the first time. The thought of using the manuscript as a pretext had been slow to suggest itself to her. But—wouldn’t I prefer to come to her? She had her own room. She might receive any one she pleased; she was perfectly free. She said all this so simply. So sweetly, so innocently, so naturally,—with that deep velvety voice of hers, and her fathomless eyes and her intense youth. I wanted to cry out, No! I felt with all my being that I should say No. But at the same time I knew that the struggle was in vain. She had ignited something within me, and I was all aflame,—burning, burning.