He muttered an oath. The confounded old priest had put out his calculations, and he had forgotten the day of the month. And over there Felicitas was still standing at the window smiling. To sneak away now would be the action of a coward. His heart beat quicker as he ascended the steps to the house. Since that day of the meeting on the island he had never been alone with her. She received him in the garden salon, the glass doors of which were partially closed to keep out the autumnal chilliness. She sat with her hands folded in her lap and did not cease smiling. This smile, in which melancholy, irony, and forgiveness were mingled, seemed to have been learnt by heart. "It almost looks as if you were afraid of me, my friend," she said, as she hesitatingly offered him her hand. "In all my life I have never feared death or devil," he said, forcing himself into a swaggering tone. "And certainly I have never been afraid of you." "But you run away from me and avoid me whenever you can. I wouldn't mind betting that your coming to-day is a mistake. Had you remembered that Ulrich would not be at home ...?" "Ah!" he interposed with a click of his tongue. "But you can be quite easy in your mind. I won't bite you. No, I don't bite." And she showed the whole of her white set of teeth as she laughed. He thought, "Thank God! she isn't fretting." And a feeling of satisfaction came back. "You'll stay a few minutes, I hope," she said lightly. "I'll try and make up for Ulrich." That sounded modest and ingenuous enough. He bowed assent. "Then let us go to my room," she said; "there we shan't be disturbed." A slight aversion came over him at the thought of the boudoir, with its feminine ornaments and luxury, and its heavily perfumed air which half stifled him. "Or perhaps you would rather stay here?" she asked, divining with quick instinct the ground of his hesitation. "If it's all the same to you, I would rather." She spread out her hands--a little gesture which was meant to convey that her only wish was to do what he wished. There was a short silence. The late September sunshine filled the spacious room with warm-toned hues. Autumnally lazy flies buzzed and fell about on the window panes. No other sound disturbed the afternoon peacefulness, which seemed almost too sabbatical, too slumbrous, for this guilty pair. Felicitas leaned back in a corner of the lounge, and with a sigh of deep content said, "Thank God." "Why do you thank God?" he asked. "That at last I have got you for once all to myself." "You have got something to be proud of," he said ironically.