He approached her ardently. She, her eyes full of fright, pushed him
away with a kind of horror.

He understood, stopped, and said:

"You have a lover."

She bent her head, then lifted it, grave and dumb.

Then he made a gesture as if to strike her, and at once recoiled in
shame. He lowered his eyes and was silent. His fingers to his lips,
and biting his nails, he saw that his hand had been pricked by a pin on
her waist, and bled. He threw himself in an armchair, drew his
handkerchief to wipe off the blood, and remained indifferent and without
thought.

She, with her back to the door, her face calm and pale, her look vague,
arranged her hat with instinctive care. At the noise, formerly
delicious, that the rustle of her skirts made, he started, looked at her,
and asked furiously:

"Who is he? I will know."

She did not move. She replied with soft firmness:

"I have told you all I can. Do not ask more; it would be useless."

He looked at her with a cruel expression which she had never seen before.