did not in itself appeal to her, and she was doubtful of its social
benefit. She lacked the adventurous curiosity which seeks its occasion
in the unknown; and though she could work doggedly for a given object
the obstacles to be overcome had to be as distinct as the prize. Her one
desire was to get back an equivalent of the precise value she had lost
in ceasing to be Ralph Marvell's wife. Her new visiting-card, bearing
her Christian name in place of her husband's, was like the coin of a
debased currency testifying to her diminished trading capacity. Her
restricted means, her vacant days, all the minor irritations of her
life, were as nothing compared to this sense of a lost advantage. Even
in the narrowed field of a Parisian winter she might have made herself
a place in some more or less extra-social world; but her experiments in
this line gave her no pleasure proportioned to the possible derogation.
She feared to be associated with "the wrong people," and scented a shade
of disrespect in every amicable advance. The more pressing attentions of
one or two men she had formerly known filled her with a glow of outraged
pride, and for the first time in her life she felt that even solitude
might be preferable to certain kinds of society. Since ill health was
the most plausible pretext for seclusion, it was almost a relief to find
that she was really growing "nervous" and sleeping badly. The doctor she
summoned advised her trying a small quiet place on the Riviera, not too
near the sea; and thither in the early days of December, she transported
herself with her maid and an omnibus-load of luggage.

The place disconcerted her by being really small and quiet, and for a
few days she struggled against the desire for flight. She had never
before known a world as colourless and negative as that of the large
white hotel where everybody went to bed at nine, and donkey-rides over
stony hills were the only alternative to slow drives along dusty roads.
Many of the dwellers in this temple of repose found even these exercises
too stimulating, and preferred to sit for hours under the palms in
the garden, playing Patience, embroidering, or reading odd volumes of
Tauchnitz. Undine, driven by despair to an inspection of the hotel
book-shelves, discovered that scarcely any work they contained was
complete; but this did not seem to trouble the readers, who continued to
feed their leisure with mutilated fiction, from which they occasionally
raised