The factory, as she often jestingly remarked to Richard, was her unhappy love. To call for him at his office at closing time was her greatest delight, and had she been permitted to, she would have busied herself at the factory every day. But he objected. His employés knew of the close relationship between them, and he must avoid gossip and ridicule. Lilly felt sure this was not the only motive. She had long fully realised that his mother was not kindly disposed to her. Though at first he had spoken of her quite freely, he now evaded a reply when Lilly directly asked for her. Probably he feared exciting the old lady's indignation if he permitted his mistress to make herself at home in his office. So Lilly contented herself with sympathetic interest from afar in the welfare of the little kingdom. On the evenings she was left alone, at a loss what to do with herself, she got into the habit of visiting the house in Alte Jakobstrasse. She left a little before ten o'clock, and took up her station on the opposite side of the street, from where she gazed reverentially at the old grey structure. She admired the imitation marble columns, which formed a decorative frame about the entrance after the fashion of a Renaissance gateway. She stared up at the dimly lighted second story where his mother dwelt, and pressed timidly into the darkness of a doorway if she saw the threatening shadow of a woman's figure glide across the curtains. When it grew late and the tenants of the house ceased to come and go, she ventured to cross the street, mount the three front-door steps, press her face against the iron grating, and peep into the hall. The sheen of the leafy pyramid, the subdued milky whiteness of the Clytie bust, the dark glow of the stained glass window mingled to produce the mysterious, alluring impression of a dusky chapel. The front-door steps became like a goal of a pilgrimage up to which penitents crawl on their knees; the stained glass window became a heavenly aureole, the Clytie bust a benedictory saint. * * * * * Late in the summer Richard was called to the manoeuvres. His letters were curt and reserved, and unsuccessfully concealed his ill humour. Finally they were dated from the hospital. He had fallen from his horse and his left knee joint was inflamed. He would be unable to ride for a long time, perhaps forever. He returned in October wearing a gutta percha knee cap, and promptly sent in his resignation from the regiment. The fall from his horse in truth was a fortunate incident. Rumours of his relation with the divorced wife of its former commander had reached the regiment. The comrades noticeably held aloof from him, and evidently his chiefs were merely awaiting confirmation of the report to call him to account officially; a procedure which in the circumstances would have brought his lieutenancy in the reserves to a catastrophal end.