At dessert he whispered a few words into the ear of the waitress; she disappeared and returned a few seconds later with a bottle of champagne.

"My dear Axel, what are you thinking of?"

"I am thinking of the spring that has past, but will return again."

But he wasn't thinking of it exclusively, for at his wife's reproachful words there glided through the room, catlike, a dim vision of the nursery and the porridge bowl.

However--the atmosphere cleared again; the golden wine stirred their memories, and again they lost themselves in the intoxicating rapture of the past.

He leaned his elbow on the table and shaded his eyes with his hand, as if he were determined to shut out the present--this very present which,--after all, had been of his own seeking.

The hours pa.s.sed. They left the dining-room and went into the drawing-room which boasted a piano, ordering their coffee to be brought there.

"I wonder how the kiddies are?" said she, awakening to the hard facts of real life.

"Sit down and sing to me," he answered, opening the instrument.

"What would you like me to sing? You know I haven't sung a note for many days."

He was well aware of it, but he _did_ want a song.

She sat down before the piano and began to play. It was a squeaking instrument that reminded one of the rattling of loose teeth.

"What shall I sing?" she asked, turning round on the music-stool.

"You know, darling," he replied, not daring to meet her eyes.

"Your song! Very well, if I can remember it." And she sang: "Where is the blessed country where my beloved dwells?"

But alas! Her voice was thin and shrill and emotion made her sing out of tune. At times it sounded like a cry from the bottom of a soul which feels that noon is past and evening approaching. The fingers which had done hard work strayed on the wrong keys. The instrument, too, had seen its best days; the cloth on the hammers had worn away; it sounded as if the springs touched the bare wood.

When she had finished her song, she sat for a while without turning round, as if she expected him to come and speak to her. But he didn't move; not a sound broke the deep silence. When she turned round at last, she saw him sitting on the sofa, his cheeks wet with tears. She felt a strong impulse to jump up, take his head between her hands and kiss him as she had done in days gone by, but she remained where she was, immovable, with downcast eyes.

He held a cigar between his thumb and first finger. When the song was finished, he bit off the end and struck a match.

"Thank you, Lily," he said, puffing at his cigar, "will you have your coffee now?"

They drank their coffee, talked of summer holidays in general and suggested two or three places where they might go next summer. But their conversation languished and they repeated themselves.

At last he yawned openly and said: "I'm off to bed."

"I'm going, too," she said, getting up. "But I'll get a breath of fresh air first, on the balcony."

He went into the bed-room. She lingered for a few moments in the dining-room, and then talked to the landlady for about half an hour of spring-onions and woollen underwear.

When the landlady had left her she went into the bedroom and stood for a few minutes at the door, listening. No sound came from within. His boots stood in the corridor. She opened the door gently and went in.

He was asleep.

He was asleep!

At breakfast on the following morning he had a headache, and she fidgeted.

"What horrible coffee," he said, with a grimace.

"Brazilian," she said, shortly.

"What shall we do to-day?" he asked, looking at his watch.

"Hadn't you better eat some bread and b.u.t.ter, instead of grumbling at the coffee?" she said.

"Perhaps you're right," he answered, "and I'll have a liqueur at the same time. That champagne last night, ugh!"

He asked for bread and b.u.t.ter and a liqueur and his temper improved.

"Let's go to the Pilot's Hill and look at the view."

They rose from the breakfast table and went out.

The weather was splendid and the walk did them good. But they walked slowly; she panted, and his knees were stiff; they drew no more parallels with the past.

They walked across the fields. The gra.s.s had been cut long ago, there wasn't a single flower anywhere. They sat down on some large stones.

He talked of the Board of Prisons and his office. She talked of the children.

Then they walked on in silence. He looked at his watch.

"Three hours yet till dinner time," he said. And he wondered how they could kill time on the next day.

They returned to the hotel. He asked for the papers. She sat down by the side of him with a smile on her lips.

They talked little during dinner. After dinner she mentioned the servants.

"For heaven's sake, leave the servants alone!" he exclaimed.

"Surely we haven't come here to quarrel!"

"Am I quarrelling?"

"Well, I'm not!"

An awkward pause followed. He wished somebody would come. The children!

Yes! This tete-a-tete embarra.s.sed him, but he felt a pain in his heart when he thought of the bright hours of yesterday.

"Let's go to Oak Hill," she said, "and gather wild strawberries."

"There are no wild strawberries at this time of the year, it's autumn."