the day before; to begin
the morrow just in the same fashion.

Every evening, however, Christine said to Claude:

'Now, my dear, you must promise me one thing--that you'll set to work
to-morrow.'

'Yes, to-morrow; I give you my word.'

'And you know if you don't, I shall really get angry this time. Is it I
who prevent you?'

'You! what an idea. Since I came here to work--dash it all! you'll see
to-morrow.'

On the morrow they started off again in the skiff; she looked at him
with an embarrassed smile when she saw that he took neither canvas nor
colours. Then she kissed him, laughing, proud of her power, moved by
the constant sacrifice he made to her. And then came fresh affectionate
remonstrances: 'To-morrow, ah! to-morrow she would tie him to his
easel!'

However, Claude did make some attempts at work. He began a study of
the slopes of Jeufosse, with the Seine in the foreground; but Christine
followed him to the islet where he had installed himself, and sat down
on the grass close to him with parted lips, her eyes watching the
blue sky. And she looked so pretty there amidst the verdure, in that
solitude, where nothing broke the silence but the rippling of the water,
that every minute he relinquished his palette to nestle by her side. On
another occasion, he was altogether charmed by an old farmhouse, shaded
by some antiquated apple trees which had grown to the size of oaks. He
came thither two days in succession, but on the third Christine took him
to the market at Bonnieres to buy some hens. The next day was also lost;
the canvas had dried; then he grew impatient in trying to work at it
again, and finally abandoned it altogether. Throughout the warm weather
he thus made but a pretence to work--barely roughing out little bits of
painting, which he laid aside on the first pretext, without an effort at
perseverance. His passion for toil, that fever of former days that had
made him rise at daybreak to battle with his rebellious art, seemed to
have gone; a reaction of indifference and laziness had set in, and he
vegetated delightfully, like one who is recovering from some severe
illness.

But Christine lived indeed. All the latent passion of her nature burst
into being. She was indeed an amorosa, a child of nature and of love.

Thus their days passed by and solitude did not prove irksome to them.
No desire for diversion, of paying or receiving visits, as yet made them
look beyond themselves. Such hours as she