his own.
What a cruel practical joke old Nature played when she flung
so many contradictory elements together, and left the man face
to face with the perplexing callousness of the universe.

Chapter XXXII

I did not see Strickland for several weeks. I was disgusted
with him, and if I had had an opportunity should have been
glad to tell him so, but I saw no object in seeking him out
for the purpose. I am a little shy of any assumption of moral
indignation; there is always in it an element of self-satisfaction
which makes it awkward to anyone who has a sense of humour.
It requires a very lively passion to steel me to
my own ridicule. There was a sardonic sincerity in Strickland
which made me sensitive to anything that might suggest a pose.

But one evening when I was passing along the Avenue de Clichy
in front of the cafe which Strickland frequented and which I
now avoided, I ran straight into him. He was accompanied by
Blanche Stroeve, and they were just going to Strickland's
favourite corner.

"Where the devil have you been all this time?" said he.
"I thought you must be away."

His cordiality was proof that he knew I had no wish to speak
to him. He was not a man with whom it was worth while wasting
politeness.

"No," I said; "I haven't been away."

"Why haven't you been here?"

"There are more cafes in Paris than one, at which to trifle
away an idle hour."

Blanche then held out her hand and bade me good-evening.
I do not know why I had expected her to be somehow changed;
she wore the same gray dress that she wore so often, neat and
becoming, and her brow was as candid, her eyes as untroubled,
as when I had been used to see her occupied with her household
duties in the studio.

"Come and have a game of chess," said Strickland.

I do not know why at the moment I could think of no excuse.
I followed them rather sulkily to the table at which Strickland
always sat, and he called for the board and the chessmen.
They both took the situation so much as a matter of course
that I felt it absurd to do otherwise. Mrs. Stroeve watched
the game with inscrutable face. She was silent, but she had
always been silent. I looked at her mouth for an expression
that could give me a clue to what she felt; I watched her eyes
for some tell-tale flash, some hint of dismay or bitterness;
I scanned her brow for any passing line that might indicate a
settling emotion. Her face was a mask that told nothing.
Her