Lights yet burned on the lower floors and behind the drawn blinds of
Athalie's room. The night was quiet and soft and lovely; the moon
still young in its first quarter.

There was no wind to blow the fountain jet, so that every drop fell
straight back where the slim column of water broke against a strip of
stars above the garden wall. Somewhere in distant darkness the little
owl trilled.

* * * * *

If he were walking or motionless he no longer knew it; nor did he seem
to be aware of anything around.

Hafiz came up to him through the dusk with a little mew of recognition
or of loneliness. Afterward the cat followed him for a while and then
settled down upon the grass intent on the invisible stirring
stealthily in obscurity.

The fragrance of the iris grew sweeter, fresher. Many new buds had
unfolded since high noon. One stalk had fallen across the path and
Clive's dragging feet passed over it where he moved blindly, at
hazard, with stumbling steps along the path--errant, senseless, and
always blind.

For on the garden bench a young girl sat, slender, exquisite, smiling
as he approached. But he could not see her, nor could he see in her
arms the little flower-like face, and the tiny hands against her
breast.

"Clive!" she said. But he could not hear her.

"Clive," she whispered; "my beloved!"

But he could neither see nor hear. His knees, too, were failing; he
put out one hand, blindly, and sank down upon the garden bench.