And yet, at the end of this prayer a subconscious thought broke through to consciousness. “And what was that dreadful confession you had to make?” he was saying. The Master listened, with becoming attention, to the narrative, and, at its conclusion, shook his head gravely, applied his thumb to the side of his nose, and, twirling his fingers significantly, winked at his phlegmatic companion. En tout cas, why had he not returned? She pondered the question as, later, she paced about her favourite retreat. His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear. He began to tell me something—and stopped. “What were you doing?” Her voice was a little hysterical. Luckily, she was bereft of consciousness, and was thus spared the additional misery of witnessing what afterwards befell him.
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