go before she could cry out. And she was so used to the forms of
repression enveloping, softening the crude impulses of old humanity
that she no longer believed in their existence as if it were an
exploded legend. She did not recognise what had happened to her.
She came safe out of his arms, without a struggle, not even having
felt afraid.

"What's the meaning of this?" she said, outraged but calm in a
scornful way.

He got down on his knees in silence, bent low to her very feet,
while she looked down at him, a little surprised, without
animosity, as if merely curious to see what he would do. Then,
while he remained bowed to the ground pressing the hem of her skirt
to his lips, she made a slight movement. He got up.

"No," he said. "Were you ever so much mine what could I do with
you without your consent? No. You don't conquer a wraith, cold
mist, stuff of dreams, illusion. It must come to you and cling to
your breast. And then! Oh! And then!"

All ecstasy, all expression went out of his face.

"Mr. Renouard," she said, "though you can have no claim on my
consideration after having decoyed me here for the vile purpose,
apparently, of gloating over me as your possible prey, I will tell
you that I am not perhaps the extraordinary being you think I am.
You may believe me. Here I stand for truth itself."

"What's that to me what you are?" he answered. "At a sign from you