ight and attractive to the eye; later on, you will
perceive the shades in the colour, the lines in the form and the
expression in the subject. And, if at first our admiration is given to
what is poor and unworthy, what does it matter, so long as it is aroused
at all?"

2

We had reached the foot of the stairs that lead to the _Victory of
Samothrace_. After staring at it for a minute, Rose remarked, in a voice
heavy with indifference:

"It's beautiful, very beautiful."

I felt that she had no other object than that of pleasing me; but her
natural honesty soon prevailed when I asked her what she admired; and
she answered, simply:

"I don't know."

It is in this way, by never utterly and altogether disappointing me,
that she keeps her hold on me. She sees and feels nothing of what we
call beautiful; on the other hand, she is cheerfully oblivious to the
necessity of assuming what she does not feel; she has no idea of posing
either to herself or to others; and the strange coldness of her soul
makes my affection all the warmer. By not trying to appear what she is
not, she constantly keeps alive in me the illusion of what she may be or
of what she will become.

We walked quickly through a number of rooms and sat down in a quiet
corner. I was already under the spell of that deep, reposeful life which
emanates from some of the Primitives; but Roseline, who had stopped on
the way in order to have a better view of various ugly things, was
talking and laughing loudly.

This annoyed me; and I was on the point of telling her so. However, I
restrained myself: I should have felt ashamed to be angry with her. Was
she not gay and lively, as I had wished to see her? What right have we
to let ourselves be swayed by the vagaries of our instinct and expect
our companion to feel the same obligation of silence or speech at any
given moment? Our emotion should strike chords so strong and true that
no minor dissonances of varying temperaments can make them ring false.

Rose chattered away for a long time, speaking all in the same breath of
her convent days, of her terrible godmother, of the scandal which her
sudden disappearance must be creating in the village. Then she stopped;
and I felt her eyes resting vacantly by turns upon myself and upon the
square in the ceiling which at that moment framed a patch of grey sky
studded with whirling snow-flakes. At last, she raised her veil with an
indolent movement, put her hand on my should