At five o'clock she started up and seized the dressing-gown on the chair near the head of the bed. She listened--heard him muttering in the sitting-room. She knew now that a crash of some kind had roused her. Several minutes of profound silence, then through the door came a steady, heavy snore. The dressing-gown dropped from her hand. She slid from the bed, slowly crossed the room, softly opened the door, looked into the sitting-room. A table and a chair lay upset in the middle of the floor. He was on a sofa, sprawling, disheveled, snoring. Slowly she advanced toward him--she was barefooted, and the white nightgown clinging to her slender figure and the long braid down her back made her look as young as her soul--the soul that gazed from her fixed, fascinated eyes, the soul of a girl of eighteen, full as much child as woman still. She sat down before him in a low chair, her elbows on her knees, her chin supported by her hands, her eyes never leaving his swollen, dark red, brutish face--a cigar stump, much chewed, lay upon his cheek near his open mouth. He was as absurd and as repulsive as a gorged pig asleep in a wallow. The dawn burst into broad day, but she sat on motionless until the clock struck the half-hour after six. Then she returned to the bedroom and locked herself in again. Toward noon she dressed and went into the sitting-room. He was gone and it had been put to rights. When he came, at twenty minutes to one, she was standing at the window, but she did not turn. "Did you get my note?" he asked, in a carefully careless tone. He went on to answer himself: "No, there it is on the floor just where I put it, under the bedroom door. No matter--it was only to say I had to go out but would be back to lunch. Sorry I was kept so late last night. Glad you didn't wait up for me--but you might have left the bedroom door open--it'd have been perfectly safe." He laughed good-naturedly. "As it was, I was so kind-hearted that I didn't disturb you, but slept on the sofa." As he advanced toward her with the obvious intention of kissing her, she slowly turned and faced him. Their eyes met and he stopped short--her look was like the eternal ice that guards the pole. "I saw you at the theater last night," she said evenly. "And this morning, I sat and watched you as you lay on the sofa over there." He was taken completely off his guard. With a gasp that was a kind of groan he dropped into a chair, the surface of his mind strewn with the wreckage of the lying excuses he had got ready. "Please don't try to explain," she went on in the same even tone. "I understand now about--about Paris and--everything. I know that--father was right." He gave her a terrified glance--no tears, no trace of excitement, only calmness and all the strength he knew was in her nature and, in addition, a strength he had not dreamed was there. "What do you intend to do?" he asked after a long silence.