As they went down the steps leading from the park to the town he offered her his arm. He led her, to all appearances, but still she had the feeling as if he were the one who needed a support--he tottered. The cemetery at Sestri lies behind the marchese's garden. The white marble monuments gleamed through the grey of evening; the white wings of an enormous angel rose just above the wall that encircles the park. Kate looked back: did not something like a presentiment seem to be wafted to them from there--or was it a hope? She did not know whether Wolfgang felt as she did or whether he felt anything, but she pressed his arm more closely and he pressed hers slightly in return. She heard him walking restlessly up and down his room during the night that followed the evening they had spent in the garden of Villa Piuma. She had really made up her mind to leave him alone--she had looked after him much too much formerly--but then she thought he was still a patient, and that the agitation he must have felt on hearing her story might be injurious to him. She wanted to go to him, but found his door locked. He only opened it after she had repeatedly knocked and implored him to let her come in. "What do you want?" There was again something of the old repellent sound in his voice. But she would not allow herself to be deterred. "I thought you might perhaps like to--well, talk a little more about it," she said tenderly. "What am I to do?" he cried, and he wrung his hands and started to stride restlessly up and down the room again. "If only somebody would tell me what I'm to do now. But nobody knows. Nobody can know. What am I to do--what am I to do?" Kate stood there dismayed: oh, now he had such thoughts. She saw it, he had wept. She clung to him full of grieved sympathy. She did what she had not done for a long time, for an exceedingly long time, she kissed him. And shaken in the depths of her being by his "What am I to do?" as by a just reproach, she said contritely: "Don't torture yourself. Don't fret. If you like we'll go there--we'll look for her--we shall no doubt find her." But he shook his head vehemently and groaned. "That's too late now--much too late. What am I to do there now? I am no use for that or for this"--he threw out his hands--"no use for anything. Mother, mother!" Throwing both his arms round the woman he fell down heavily in front of her and pressed his face against her dress. She felt he was sobbing by the convulsive movement of his body, by the tight grasp of his hot hands round her waist. "If only I knew--my mother--mother--oh, mother, what am I to do?"