He said nothing more and silently allowed her, after a little, to
depart. It had been her duty to provide him with an explanation, and he
was disgusted with her blankness; but she was--if there was no more to
come--getting off easily. When she had gone he went into the garden and
walked up and down with his cigar. He saw his wife seated alone on the
terrace, but remained below, wandering, turning, pausing, lingering. He
remained a long time. It grew late and Madame de Mauves disappeared.
Toward midnight he dropped upon a bench, tired, with a long vague
exhalation of unrest. It was sinking into his spirit that he too didn't
understand Madame Clairin's sister-in-law.

Longmore was obliged to wait a week in London for a ship. It was very
hot, and he went out one day to Richmond. In the garden of the hotel at
which he dined he met his friend Mrs. Draper, who was staying there. She
made eager enquiry about Madame de Mauves; but Longmore at first, as
they sat looking out at the famous view of the Thames, parried her
questions and confined himself to other topics. At last she said she was
afraid he had something to conceal; whereupon, after a pause, he asked
her if she remembered recommending him, in the letter she had addressed
him at Saint-Germain, to draw the sadness from her friend's smile. "The
last I saw of her was her smile," he said--"when I bade her good-bye."

"I remember urging you to 'console' her," Mrs. Draper returned, "and I
wondered afterwards whether--model of discretion as you are--I hadn't
cut you out work for which you wouldn't thank me."

"She has her consolation in herself," the young man said; "she needs
none that any one else can offer her. That's for troubles for which--be
it more, be it less--our own folly has to answer. Madame de Mauves