Do not let us nourish it! We must destroy it--blight it with much love! I speak for you, for me!" The San Reve began to cry convulsively.

"I speak against a dark day! I feel, I know it! It is you, you whom I shall kill! And then myself--oh, yes, my Storri, you cannot go alone!" The San Reve threw herself weeping upon the couch; her gusty nature seemed torn by whirlwinds of passion and jealous love.

Storri hung in the door, and the white of his cravat was not so white as his face.

He could neither go nor stay, neither speak nor do; craven to the heart, he quailed before the stormy San Reve.

An artist might have painted him as the Genius of Cowardice.
"Good-night, my Storri," said the San Reve, her voice mournfully sweet..