When I left him,after we had buried poor Blanche,Stroeve walked into the house with a heavy heart.Something impelled him to go to the studio,some obscure desire for selftorture,and yet he dreaded the anguish that he foresaw.He dragged himself up the stairs;his feet seemed unwilling to carry him;and outside the door he lingered for a long time,trying to summon up courage to go in.He felt horribly sick.He had an impulse to run down the stairs after me and beg me to go in with him;he had a feeling that there was somebody in the studio.He remembered how often he had waited for a minute or two on the landing to get his breath after the ascent,and how absurdly his impatience to see Blanche had taken it away again.To see her was a delight that never staled,and even though he had not been out an hour he was as excited at the prospect as if they had been parted for a month.Suddenly he could not believe that she was dead.What had happened could only be a dream,a frightful dream;and when he turned the key and opened the door,he would see her bending slightly over the table in t......