chiaroscuro of the magic night were likewise conducive. So that there
came a lessening of the tension of resentment in his humour.

It was true that Life would never let him rest in the quiet byways of
his desire; but after all, unrest was Life; and it was good to be alive
tonight, alive and weary and not ill-content with self, in a motor car
swinging swiftly and silently along a river road in the hills of
Southern France, with a woman lovely, soignée and mysterious at the
wheel.

Perhaps instinctively sensible of the regard that dwelt, warm with
wonder, on the fair curve of her cheek, the perfect modelling of her
nose and mouth, she looked swiftly askance, after a time, surprised his
admiration, and as if not displeased smiled faintly as she returned
attention to the road.

Duchemin was conscious of something like a shock of emotion, a sudden
surging of some hunger that had long lain dormant in his being,
unsuspected, how long he could not surmise, gaining strength in
latency, waiting to be awakened and set free by one careless, sidelong
look and smile of a strange woman.

"Eve," he whispered, unheard, "Eve de Montalais ..."

Then of a sudden he caught himself up sharply. It was natural enough
that one should be susceptible to gentler impulses, at such a time,
under circumstances so strange, so unforeseen, so romantic; but he must
not, dared not, would not yield. That way danger lay.

Not that he feared danger; for like most of mankind he loved it well.