ow
Frenchman to his fingers' ends, and I confess I should dislike him for
this if he were a much better man. He can't forgive his wife for having
married him too extravagantly and loved him too well; since he feels, I
suppose, in some uncorrupted corner of his being that as she originally
saw him so he ought to have been. It disagrees with him somewhere that
a little American bourgeoise should have fancied him a finer fellow
than he is or than he at all wants to be. He hasn't a glimmering of real
acquaintance with his wife; he can't understand the stream of passion
flowing so clear and still. To tell the truth I hardly understand it
myself, but when I see the sight I find I greatly admire it. The Count
at any rate would have enjoyed the comfort of believing his wife as bad
a case as himself, and you'll hardly believe me when I assure you he
goes about intimating to gentlemen whom he thinks it may concern that
it would be a convenience to him they should make love to Madame de
Mauves."

V

On reaching Paris Longmore straightaway purchased a Murray's "Belgium"
to help himself to believe that he would start on the morrow for
Brussels; but when the morrow came it occurred to him that he ought by
way of preparation to acquaint himself more intimately with the Flemish
painters in the Louvre. This took a whole morning, but it did little
to hasten his departure. He had abruptly left Saint-Germain because
it seemed to him that respect for Madame de Mauves required he should
bequeath her husband no reason to suppose he had, as it were, taken a
low hint; but now that he had deferred to that scruple he found himself
thinking more and more ardently of his friend. It was a poor expression
of ardour to be lingering irresolutely on the forsaken boulevard, but
he detested the idea of leaving Saint-Germain five hundred miles behind
him. He felt very foolish, nevertheless, and wandered about nervously,
promising himself to take the next train. A dozen trains started,
however, and he was still in Paris. This inward ache was more than he
had bargained for, and as he looked at the shop-windows he wondered if
it represented a "passion." He had never been fond of the word and had
grown up with much mistrust of what it stood for. He had hoped that
when he should fall "really" in love he should do it with an excellent
conscience, with plenty of confidence and joy, doubtless, but no strange
soreness, no pangs nor regrets. Here was a senti