"I meant what I said," I declared, as I stood up. "I mean it still."
"Ah," said she, flinging her hands out, "poor Augustin, you mean it still! Take me along the corridor, dear, I'm afraid to go alone."
Sometimes I blame myself that I submitted to the second mood as completely as I had responded to the first; but I was staggered by the change, and the old sense of distance scattered for an hour was enveloping me again.
One protest I made.
"Are we to do nothing, then?" I asked in a low whisper.
"We're to go to our beds like good children," said she with a mournful little smile. "Come, take me to mine."
"I must see you in the morning."
"In the morning? Well, we'll see. Come, come."
Now she was urgent, and I did as she bade me. But first she made me bring her a pair of my slippers; her feet were very cold, she said, and they felt like ice against my hand as I touched them in putting on the slippers for her. She passed her hand through my arm and we went together. The door of her room stood wide open; we went in; I saw the bed in confusion.
"Fancy if any one had come by and seen!" she whispered. "Now, good-night, dear."
I opened my lips to speak to her again.
"No, no; go, please go. Good-night, dear." I left her standing in the middle of her room. Outside the door I waited many minutes; I heard her moving about and getting into bed; then all was quiet; I returned to my own room.
