Had she entered: was she there, behind the closed door?
To go in and find the studio empty seemed almost more than he could endure.

But, at last, he went in; and he found the studio empty.
Confused, shaken, tortured, he began again his aimless tour of the place, ranging the four walls like a wild creature dulled to insanity by long imprisonment--passing backward, forward, to and fro, across, around his footsteps timing the dreadful monotone of his heart, his pulse beating, thudding out his doom.
She would never come; never come again.

She had determined what was best to do; she had arrived at her decision.

Perhaps his letter had convinced her,--had cleared her vision;--the letter which he had been man enough to write--fool enough--God!--perhaps brave enough....

But if what he had done in his madness was bravery, it was an accursed thing; and he set his teeth and cursed himself scarce knowing what he was saying.
It promised to be an endless night for him; and there were other nights to come--interminable nights.