thehushoffeverish，intolerableexpectation。Thestillearth，theheavyflowers，eventhegrowingdarkness，breathedtheexhaustionofprotractedwaiting。Carolinefeltthatsheoughttogo；thatitwaswrongtostay；thatthehourandtheplacewereastreacherousasherownreflections。Sheroseandbegantopacethefloor，steppingsoftly，asthoughinfearofawakeningsomeone，herfigure，initsthindrapery，diaphanouslyvagueandwhite。Stillunabletoshakeofftheobsessionoftheintensestillness，shesatdownatthepianoandbegantorunoverthefirstactoftheWalkure，thelastofhisrolestheyhadpracticedtogether；playinglistlesslyandabsentlyatfirst，butwithgraduallyincreasingseriousness。Perhapsitwasthestillheatofthesummernight，perhapsitwastheheavyodorsfromthegardenthatcameinthroughtheopenwindows；butassheplayedtheregrewandgrewthefeelingthathewasthere，besideher，standinginhisaccustomedplace。Intheduetattheendofthefirstactsheheardhimclearly:“ThouarttheSpringforwhichIsighedinWinter’scoldembraces。“Onceashesangit，hehadputhisarmabouther，hisonehandunderherheart，whilewiththeotherhetookherrightfromthekeyboard，holdingherashealwaysheldSieglindewhenhedrewhertowardthewindow。Shehadbeenwonderfullythemistressofherselfatthetime；neitherrepellentnoracquiescent。Sherememberedthatshehadratherexulted，then，inherself-control——whichhehadseemedtotakeforgranted，thoughtherewasperhapsthewhisperofaquestionfromthehandunderherheart。“ThouarttheSpringforwhichIsighedinWinter’scoldembraces。“Carolineliftedherhandsquicklyfromthekeyboard，andshebowedherheadinthem，sobbing。
　　Thestormbrokeandtherainbeatin，spatteringhernightdressuntilsheroseandloweredthewindows。Shedroppeduponthecouchandbeganfightingoveragainthebattlesofotherdays，whiletheghostsoftheslainroseasfromasowingofdragon’steeth，Theshadowsofthings，alwayssoscornedandflouted，boredownuponhermercilessandtriumphant。Itwasnotenough；thishappy，useful，well-orderedlifewasnotenough。Itdidnotsatisfy，itwasnotevenreal。No，theotherthings，theshadows-theyweretherealities。Herfather，poorHeinrich，evenhermother，whohadbeenabletosustainherpoorromanceandkeepherlittleillusionsamidthetasksofascullion，werenearerhappinessthanshe。Hersurefoundationwasbutmadeground，afterall，andthepeopleinKlingsor’sgardenweremorefortunate，howeverbarrenthesandsfromwhichtheyconjuredtheirparadise。
　　Thelodgewasstillandsilent；herfitofweepingover，Carolinemadenosound，andwithintheroom，aswithoutinthegarden，wastheblacknessofstorm。Onlynowandthenaflashoflightningshowedawoman’sslenderfigurerigidonthecouch，herfaceburiedinherhands。
　　Towardmorning，whentheoccasionalrumblingofthunderwasheardnomoreandthebeatoftheraindropsupontheorchardleaveswassteadier，shefellasleepanddidnotwakenuntilthefirstredstreaksofdawnshonethroughthetwistedboughsoftheappletrees。Therewasamomentbetweenworldandworld，when，neitherasleepnorawake，shefeltherdreamgrowthin，meltingawayfromher，feltthewarmthunderherheartgrowingcold。Somethingseemedtoslipfromtheclingingholdofherarms，andshegroanedprotestinglythroughherpartedlips，followingitalittlewaywithflutteringhands。Thenhereyesopenedwideandshesprangupandsatholdingdizzilytothecushionsofthecouch，staringdownatherbare，coldfeet，atherlaboringbreast，risingandfallingunderheropennightdress。
　　Thedreamwasgone，butthefeverishrealityofitstillpervadedherandshehelditasthevibratingstringholdsatone。InthelasthourtheshadowshadhadtheirwaywithCaroline。Theyhadshownherthenothingnessoftimeandspace，ofsystemanddiscipline，ofcloseddoorsandbroadwaters。
　　Shuddering，shethoughtoftheArabianfairytaleinwhichthegeniebroughttheprincessofChinatothesleepingprinceofDamascusandcarriedherthroughtheairbacktoherpalaceatdawn。Carolineclosedhereyesanddroppedherelbowsweaklyuponherknees，hershoulderssinkingtogether。Thehorrorwasthatithadnotcomefromwithout，butfromwithin。Thedreamwasnoblindchance；itwastheexpressionofsomethingshehadkeptsocloseaprisonerthatshehadneverseenitherself，itwasthewailfromthedonjondeepswhenthewatchslept。Onlyastheoutcomeofsuchanightofsorcerycouldthethinghavebeenloosedtostraightenitslimbsandmeasureitselfwithher；soheavywerethechainsuponit，somanyafathomdeep，itwascrusheddownintodarkness。Thefactthatd’Esquerrehappenedtobeontheothersideoftheworldmeantnothing；hadhebeenhere，besideher，itcouldscarcelyhavehurtherself-respectsomuch。Asitwas，shewaswithouteventheextenuationofanouterimpulse，andshecouldscarcelyhavedespisedherselfmorehadshecometohimhereinthenightthreeweeksagoandthrownherselfdownuponthestoneslabatthedoorthere。
　　Carolineroseunsteadilyandcreptguiltilyfromthelodgeandalongthepathunderthearbor，terrifiedlesttheservantsshouldbestirring，tremblingwiththechillair，whilethewetshrubbery，brushingagainsther，drenchedhernightdressuntilitclungaboutherlimbs。
　　Atbreakfastherhusbandlookedacrossthetableatherwithconcern。“Itseemstomethatyouarelookingratherfagged，Caroline。Itwasabeastlynighttosleep。Whydon’tyougouptothemountainsuntilthishotweatherisover？Bytheway，wereyouinearnestaboutlettingthelodgestand？“
　　Carolinelaughedquietly。“No，IfindIwasnotveryserious。I
　　haven’tsentimentenoughtoforegoasummerhouse。WillyoutellBakertocometomorrowtotalkitoverwithme？Ifwearetohaveahouseparty，Ishouldliketoputhimtoworkonitatonce。“
　　Noblegaveheraglance，half-humorous，half-vexed。“DoyouknowIamratherdisappointed？“hesaid。“Ihadalmosthopedthat，justforonce，youknow，youwouldbealittlebitfoolish。“
　　“NotnowthatI’vesleptoverit，“repliedCaroline，andtheybothrosefromthetable，laughing。
　　EndTheMarriageofPhaedraThesequenceofeventswassuchthatMacMasterdidnotmakehispilgrimagetoHughTreffinger’sstudiountilthreeyearsafterthatpainter’sdeath。MacMasterwashimselfapainter，anAmericanoftheGallicizedtype，whospenthiswintersinNewYork，hissummersinParis，andnoinconsiderableamountoftimeonthebroadwatersbetween。HehadoftencontemplatedstoppinginLondonononeofhisreturntripsinthelateautumn，buthehadalwaysdeferredleavingParisuntiltheprickofnecessitydrovehimhomebythequickestandshortestroute。
　　Treffingerwasacomparativelyyoungmanatthetimeofhisdeath，andtherehadseemednooccasionforhasteuntilhastewasofnoavail。Then，possibly，thoughtherehadbeensomecorrespondencebetweenthem，MacMasterfeltcertainqualmsaboutmeetinginthefleshamanwhointhefleshwassodiverselyreported。HisintercoursewithTreffinger’sworkhadbeensodeepandsatisfying，soapartfromotherappreciations，thatheratherdreadedacriticaljunctureofanysort。Hehadalwaysfelthimselfsingularlyineptinpersonalrelations，andinthiscasehehadavoidedtheissueuntilitwasnolongertobefearedorhopedfor。Therestillremained，however，Treffinger’sgreatunfinishedpicture，theMarriageofPhaedra，whichhadneverlefthisstudio，andofwhichMacMaster’sfriendshadnowandagainbroughtreportthatitwasthepainter’smostcharacteristicproduction。
　　TheyoungmanarrivedinLondonintheevening，andthenextmorningwentouttoKensingtontofindTreffinger’sstudio。ItlayinoneoftheperplexingbystreetsoffHollandRoad，andthenumberhefoundonadoorsetinahighgardenwall，thetopofwhichwascoveredwithbrokengreenglassandoverwhichabuddinglilacbushnodded。Treffinger’splatewasstillthere，andacardrequestingvisitorstoringfortheattendant。InresponsetoMacMaster’sring，thedoorwasopenedbyacleanlybuiltlittleman，cladinashootingjacketandtrousersthathadbeenmadeforanamplerfigure。Hehadafreshcomplexion，eyesofthatcommonuncertainshadeofgray，andwascloselyshavenexceptfortheincipientmuttonchopsonhisruddycheeks。Heborehimselfinamannerstrikinglycapable，andtherewasasortoftrimnessandalertnessabouthim，despitethetoo-generousshouldersofhiscoat。Inonehandheheldabulldogpipe，andintheotheracopyofSportingLife。WhileMacMasterwasexplainingthepurposeofhiscallhenoticedthatthemansurveyedhimcritically，thoughnotimpertinently。Hewasadmittedintoalittletankofalodgemadeofwhitewashedstone，thebackdoorandwindowsopeninguponagarden。Avisitor’sbookandapileofcatalogueslayonadealtable，togetherwithabottleofinkandsomerustypens。Thewallwasornamentedwithphotographsandcoloredprintsofracingfavorites。
　　“Thestudioish’onlyopentothepubliconSaturdaysandSundays，“
　　explainedtheman——hereferredtohimselfas“Jymes“——“butofcoursewemakeexceptionsinthecaseofpynters。LydyEllingTreffinger’erselfisontheContinent，butSir’Ugh’sorderswasthatpynterswasto’avetherunoftheplace。“Heselectedakeyfromhispocketandthrewopenthedoorintothestudiowhich，likethelodge，wasbuiltagainstthewallofthegarden。
　　MacMasterenteredalong，narrowroom，builtofsmoothedplanks，paintedalightgreen；coldanddampevenonthatfineMaymorning。Theroomwasutterlybareoffurniture——unlessastepladder，amodelthrone，andarackladenwithlargeleatherportfolioscouldbeaccountedsuch——andwaswindowless，withoutotheropeningsthanthedoorandtheskylight，underwhichhungtheunfinishedpictureitself。MacMasterhadneverseensomanyofTreffinger’spaintingstogether。Heknewthepainterhadmarriedawomanwithmoneyandhadbeenabletokeepsuchofhispicturesashewished。These，withallof182hisreplicasandstudies，hehadleftasasortofcommonlegacytotheyoungermenoftheschoolhehadoriginated。
　　AssoonashewasleftaloneMacMastersatdownontheedgeofthemodelthronebeforetheunfinishedpicture。Hereindeedwaswhathehadcomefor；itratherparalyzedhisreceptivityforthemoment，butgraduallythethingfounditswaytohim。
　　Atoneo’clockhewasstandingbeforethecollectionofstudiesdoneforBoccaccio’sGardenwhenheheardavoiceathiselbow。
　　“Pardon，sir，butIwasjustabouttolockupandgotolunch。Areyoulookin’forthefigurestudyofBoccaccio’imself？“Jamesqueriedrespectfully。“LydyEllingTreffingergiveittoMr。RossitertotakedowntoOxfordforsomelectureshe’sbeenagivingthere。“
　　“Didheneverpaintouthisstudies，then？“askedMacMasterwithperplexity。“Herearetwocompletedonesforthispicture。
　　Whydidhekeepthem？“
　　“Idon’tknowasIcouldsayastothat，sir，“repliedJames，smilingindulgently，“butthatwas’isway。Thatistosay，’epyntedoutveryfrequent，but’ealwaysmadetwostudiestostand；
　　oneinwatercolorsandoneinoils，before’ewentatthefinalpicture——tosaynothinkofalltheposestudies’emadeinpencilbeforehebegunonthecompositionproperatall。Hewasthatparticular。Yousee，’ewasn’tsokeenforthefinaleffectasfortheproperpyntin’of’ispictures。’Eusedtosaytheyoughttobewellmade，thesameasanyotherh’articleoftrade。Icanlaymy’andontheposestudiesforyou，sir。“Herummagedinoneoftheportfoliosandproducedhalfadozendrawings，“Thesethree，“