Of course as the days went by the sparkle of Paul's joy subsided. An infinite unrest took its place--a continual mad desire for further news. Supposing she were ill, his darling one? Many times a day he read her words; the pencil writing was certainly feeble and shaky--supposing--But he refused to face any terrible picture. The letter had come on the 2d of March; his son had been eleven days old then--two days and a half to Vienna--that brought it to eight when the letter was posted--and from whence had it come there? If he allowed two days more, say--she must have written it only five or six days after the baby's birth.

Paul knew very little about such things, though he understood vaguely that a woman might possibly be very ill even after then. But surely, if so, Anna or Dmitry would have told him on their own initiative. This thought comforted him a little, but still anxiety--like a sleuth-hound--pursued his every moment. He would not leave home--London saw him not even for a day. Some word might come in his absence, some message or summons to go to her, and he would not chance being out of its reach. More than ever all their three weeks of happiness was lived over again--every word she had said had sunk for ever in his memory. And away in his solitary walks, or his rides home from hunting in the dusk of the afternoon, he let them echo in his heart.