Well, what I did was this: I went to the door of the room and knocked softly. There was no answer. The sobs continued. I had been a brute to this girl in the morning; I thought of that as I stood outside.

“My God! what’s the matter with her?” I whispered.

And then I opened the door softly.

Marie Delhasse sat in a chair, her head resting in her hands and her hands on the table; and her body was shaken with her weeping.

And on the table, hard by her bowed golden head, there lay a square leathern box. I stood on the threshold and looked at her.

The rest of the day did not now seem likely to be dull; but it might prove to have in store for me more difficult tasks than the enduring of a little dullness.