I was in a fever of anxiety lest I should break down, and made every effort to be merry. The others did likewise, but none of us were calm: our laughter had a thrill of nervousness in it. It was only George who seemed perfectly natural: his voice was no louder than usual, and his face was very quiet.
The dinner was not long, and the gentlemen did not linger in the smoking-room. I ran away to the nursery to see the baby, making my escape unobserved; and, having kissed the soft little face many times, with a strange pain in my heart, I started to return to the others.
On my way, I thought I would take a peep at the library. It is my favorite room, and I had a fancy to take a last look at it by myself.
So, pushing the portière aside, I entered. The light from the dining-room shone in, and made a bar of flickering yellow on the thick rug. In the fireplace were a few live coals in a bed of ashes. George stood by the chimney, his elbows on the mantel, and his face buried in his hands.
My entry had been so noiseless that it had failed to disturb him. My first impulse was to retreat without speaking; then I thought better of it, and resolved that this should be our good-by, for I knew I should have no other opportunity of seeing him alone.
I made my way quietly to his side. Still he did not move. Putting out my hand, I touched his arm.
He started violently, and turned his face towards me without otherwise changing his position. He looked as
