An hour later, in the aesthetic room hung with tapestry, whereon citron-
trees loaded with golden fruit formed a fairy forest, Therese, her head
on the pillow, and her handsome bare arms folded under her head, was
thinking, seeing float confusedly before her the images of her new life:
Vivian Bell and her bells, her pre-Raphaelite figures, light as shadows,
ladies, isolated knights, indifferent among pious scenes, a little sad,
and looking to see who was coming; she thought also of the Prince
Albertinelli, Professor Arrighi, Choulette, with his odd play of ideas,
and Dechartre, with youthful eyes in a careworn face.

She thought he had a charming imagination, a mind richer than all those
that had been revealed to her, and an attraction which she no longer
tried to resist. She had always recognized his gift to please. She
discovered now that he had the will to please. This idea was delightful
to her; she closed her eyes to retain it. Then, suddenly, she shuddered.
She had felt a deep blow struck within her in the depth of her being.
She had a sudden vision of Robert, his gun under his arm, in the woods.
He walked with firm and regular step in the shadowy thicket. She could
not see his face, and that troubled her. She bore him no ill-will.
She was not discontented with him, but with herself. Robert went
straight on, without turning his head, far, and still farther, until he
was only a black point in the desolate wood. She thought that perhaps
she had been capricious and harsh in leaving him without a word of
farewell, without even a letter. He was her lover and her only friend.
She never had had another. "I do not wish him to be unfortunate because
of me," she thought.

Little by little she was reassured. He loved her, doubtless; but he was
not susceptible, not ingenious, happily, in tormenting himself. She said
to herself: