The thought came into his head of looking her up now, in this very hour. He had a dim recollection of the whereabouts of her dwelling. He could soon ascertain its exact situation. Then again the problems of his racing stable came into his head. The thought of "Maidenhood," the newly purchased horse, worried him. He had staked much upon one throw. If he lost, it would take time to repair the damage. Suddenly he found himself in a tobacconist's shop, looking for her name in the directory. _Friedrich-Wilhelm Strasse_ was the address. Quite near, as he had surmised. He was not at loss for an excuse. Her husband must still be in his office at this hour. He would not be asked for any very strict accounting for his action. At worst there was an approaching riding festival, for which he could request her cooperation. Perhaps she had forgotten him and would revenge herself for her humiliation. Perhaps she would be insulted and not even receive him. At best he must count upon coldness, bitter truths and that appearance of hatred which injured love assumes. What did it matter? She was a woman, after all. The vestibule of the house was supported by pillars; its walls were ornately stuccoed; the floor was covered with imitation oriental rugs. It was the rented luxury with which the better middle-class loves to surround itself. He ascended three flights of stairs. An elderly servant in a blue apron regarded the stranger suspiciously. He asked for her mistress. She would see. Holding his card gingerly, she disappeared. Now _he_ would see.... Then, as he bent forward, listening, he heard through the open door a cry--not of horrified surprise, but of triumph and jubilation, such a cry of sudden joy as only a long and hopeless and unrestrainable yearning can send forth. He thought he had heard wrong, but the smiling face of the returning servant reassured him. He was to be made welcome. Chapter III. He entered. With outstretched hands, tears in her eyes, her face a-quiver with a vain attempt at equanimity--thus she came forward to meet him. "There you are ... there you are ... you...." Overwhelmed and put to shame by her forgiveness and her happiness, he stood before her in silence. What could he have said to her that would not have sounded either coarse or trivial? And she demanded neither explanation nor excuse. He was here--that was enough for her. As he let his glance rest upon her, he confessed that his mental image of her fell short of the present reality. She had grown in soul and stature. Her features bore signs of power and restraint, and of a strong inner tension. Her eyes sought him with a steady light; in her bosom battled the pent-up joy. She asked him to be seated. "In that corner," she said, and led him to a tiny sofa covered with glittering, light-green silk, above which hung a withered palm-leaf fan.