Evening came, and with evening, letters; but none from her.  And slowly the stealthy twilight hours dragged their heavy minutes toward darkness; and night crawled into the room like some sinister living thing, and found him still pacing the floor.

Through the dusky June silence far below in the street sounded the clatter of wheels; but they never stopped before his abode.  Voices rose faintly at moments in the still air, borne upward as from infinite depths; but her voice would never sound again for him:  he knew it now—­never again for him.  And yet he paced the floor, listening.  The pain in his heart grew duller at intervals, benumbed by the tension; but it always returned, sickening him, almost crazing him.

Late in the evening he gave way under the torture—­turned coward, and started to write to her.  Twice he began letters—­pleading with her to forget his letter; begging her to come back.  And destroyed them with hands that shook like the hands of a sick man.  Then the dull insensibility to pain gave him a little respite, but later the misery and terror of it drove him out into the street with an insane idea of seeking her—­of taking the train and finding her.

He throttled that impulse; the struggle exhausted him; and he returned, listlessly, to the door and stood there, vacant-eyed, staring into the lamp-lit street.

Once he caught sight of a shadowy, graceful figure crossing the avenue—­a lithe young silhouette against the gas-light—­and his heart stood still for an instant but it was not she, and he swayed where he stood, under the agony of reaction, dazed by the rushing recession of emotion.

Then a sudden fear seized him that she might have come while he had been away.  He had been as far as the avenue.  Could she have come?

But when he arrived at his door he had scarce courage enough to go in.  She had a key; she might have entered.  Had she entered:  was she there, behind the closed door?  To go in and find the studio empty seemed almost more than he could endure.  But, at last, he went in; and he found the studio empty.

Confused, shaken, tortured, he began again his aimless tour of the place, ranging the four walls like a wild creature dulled to insanity by long imprisonment—­passing backward, forward, to and fro, across, around his footsteps timing the dreadful monotone of his heart, his pulse beating, thudding out his doom.

She would never come; never come again.  She had determined what was best to do; she had arrived at her decision.  Perhaps his letter had convinced her,—­had cleared her vision;—­the letter which he had been man enough to write—­fool enough—­God!—­perhaps brave enough....  But if what he had done in his madness was bravery, it was an accursed thing; and he set his teeth and cursed himself scarce knowing what he was saying.

It promised to be an endless night for him; and there were other nights to come—­interminable nights.  And now he began to watch the clock—­strained eyes riveted on the stiff gilded hands—­and on the little one jerkily, pitilessly recording the seconds and twitching them one by one into eternity.