almost luminous in their dazzling whiteness.

As Bertin took leave of the ladies at the door of exit, Madame de
Guilleroy whispered:

"Then--will you come this evening?"

"Yes, certainly."

Bertin reentered the Exposition, to talk with the artists over the
impressions of the day.

Painters and sculptors stood talking in groups around the statues and
in front of the buffet, upholding or attacking the same ideas that were
discussed every year, using the same arguments over works almost exactly
similar. Olivier, who usually took a lively share in these disputes,
being quick in repartee and clever in disconcerting attacks, besides
having a reputation as an ingenious theorist of which he was proud,
tried to urge himself to take an active part in the debates, but the
things he said interested him no more than those he heard, and he longed
to go away, to listen no more, to understand no more, knowing beforehand
as he did all that anyone could say on those ancient questions of art,
of which he knew all sides.

He loved these things, however, and had loved them until now in an
almost exclusive way; but to-day he was distracted by one of those
slight but persistent preoccupations, one of those petty anxieties which
are so small we ought not to allow ourselves to be troubled by them, but
which, in spite of all we do or say, prick through our thoughts like an
invisible thorn buried in the flesh.

He had even forgotten his anxiety over his little peasant bathers in the
remembrance of the displeasing idea of the Marquis approaching Annette.
What did it matter to him, after all? Had he any right? Why should he
wish to prevent this precious marriage, already arranged, and suitable
from every point of view? But no reasoning could efface that impression
of uneasiness and discontent which had seized him when he had beheld
Farandal talking and smiling like an accepted suitor, caressing with his
glances the fair face of the young girl.

When he entered the Countess's drawing-room that evening, and found her
alone with her daughter, continuing by the lamplight their knitting
for the poor, he had great difficulty in preventing himself from saying
sneering things about the Marquis, and from revealing to Annette his
real banality, veiled by a mask of elegance and good form.

For a long time, during these after-dinner evening visits, he had often
allowed himself to lapse into occasional silence that was slightly
somnolent, and was ac