And he dropped to his knees asking mercy on them both. In his dulled ears still lingered the treble ringing echo of the bell--lingered, reiterated, repeated incessantly, until he thought he was going mad. Then, of a sudden, he realised that the telephone was ringing; and he reeled from his knees to his feet, and crept forward into the shadows, feeling his way like a blind man. "Louis?" But he could not utter a sound. "Louis, is it you?" "Yes," he whispered. "What is the matter? Are you ill? Your voice is so strange. _Are_ you?" "No!--Is it _you_, Valerie?" "You know it is!" "Where--are you?" "In my room--where I have been all day." "You have been--_there_! You have been _here_--in the city--all this time--" "I came in on the morning train. I wanted to be sure. There _have_ been such things as railroad delays you know." "Why--_why_ didn't you let me know--" "Louis! You will please to recollect that I had until midnight ... I--was busy. Besides, midnight has just sounded--and here I am." He waited. "I received your letter." Her voice had the sweet, familiar, rising inflection which seemed to invite an answer. "Yes," he muttered, "I wrote to you." "Do you wish to know what I thought of your letter?" "Yes," he breathed. "I will tell you some other time; not now.... Have you been perfectly well, Louis? But I heard all about you, every day,--through Rita. Do you know I am quite mad to see that picture you painted of her,--the new one--'Womanhood.' She says it is a great picture--really great. Is it?" He did not answer. "Louis!"