for his hat, for his way down from the terrace. It was eight o'clock, but still brightly light.

The other people were staring. In great agitation, part of which was exasperation, she stayed behind, paid the waiter with a half-sovereign, took her yellow silk coat, then followed Skrebensky.

She saw him walking with brittle, blind steps along the path by the river. She could tell by the strange stiffness and brittleness of his figure that he was still crying. Hurrying after him, running, she took his arm.

“Tony,” she cried, “don't! Why are you like this? What are you doing this for? Don't. It's not necessary.”

He heard, and his manhood was cruelly, coldly defaced. Yet it was no good.