In his dulled ears still lingered the treble ringing echo of the bell--lingered, reiterated, repeated incessantly, until he thought he was going mad. Then, of a sudden, he realised that the telephone was ringing; and he reeled from his knees to his feet, and crept forward into the shadows, feeling his way like a blind man. "Louis?" But he could not utter a sound. "Louis, is it you?" "Yes," he whispered. "What is the matter? Are you ill? Your voice is so strange. _Are_ you?" "No!--Is it _you_, Valerie?" "You know it is!" "Where--are you?" "In my room--where I have been all day." "You have been--_there_! You have been _here_--in the city--all this time--" "I came in on the morning train. I wanted to be sure. There _have_ been such things as railroad delays you know." "Why--_why_ didn't you let me know--" "Louis! You will please to recollect that I had until midnight ... I--was busy. Besides, midnight has just sounded--and here I am." He waited. "I received your letter." Her voice had the sweet, familiar, rising inflection which seemed to invite an answer. "Yes," he muttered, "I wrote to you." "Do you wish to know what I thought of your letter?" "Yes," he breathed. "I will tell you some other time; not now.... Have you been perfectly well, Louis? But I heard all about you, every day,--through Rita. Do you know I am quite mad to see that picture you painted of her,--the new one--'Womanhood.' She says it is a great picture--really great. Is it?" He did not answer. "Louis!" "Yes." "I would like to see that picture." "Valerie?" "Yes?"--sweetly impatient. "Are we to see each other again?" She said calmly: "I didn't ask to see _you_, Louis: I asked to see a picture which you recently painted, called 'Womanhood.'" He remained silent and presently she called him again by name: "You say that you are well--or rather Rita said so two days ago--and I'm wondering whether in the interim you've fallen ill? Two days without news from you is rather disquieting. Please tell me at once exactly how you are?" He succeeded in forcing something resembling a laugh: "I am all right," he said. "I don't see how you could be--after the letter you wrote me. How much of it did you mean?" He was silent. "Louis! Answer me!" "All--of it," he managed to reply. [Illustration: "She knelt down beside the bed and ... said whatever prayer she had in mind"] "_All!_" "Yes." "Then--perhaps you scarcely expected me to call up to-night. Did you?" "No." "Suppose I had not done so." He shivered slightly, but remained mute. "Answer me, Louis?" "It would have been--better." "For you?" "For--both." "Do you believe it?" "Yes." "Then--have I any choice except to say--good-night?" "No choice. Good-night." "Good-night." He crept, shaking, into his bed-room, sat down, resting his hands on his knees and staring at vacancy.