the icy gray shades of evening
filtering through the windows. The sharp fumes of the burning wood
seemed to rise to her head, and facing the glowing mass Elena would be
seized with fits of childish glee. She had a rather cruel habit of
pulling all the flowers to pieces and scattering them over the carpet at
the end of each of her visits and then stand ready to go, fastening a
glove or a bracelet, and smile in the midst of the devastation she had
wrought.

Nothing was changed since then. A host of memories were associated with
these things which Elena had touched, on which her eyes had rested, and
scenes of that time rose up vividly and tumultuously before him. After
nearly two years' absence, Elena was going to cross his threshold once
more. In half an hour, she would be seated in that chair--a little out
of breath at first, as of yore--would have removed her veil--be
speaking. All these familiar objects would hear the sound of her voice
again--perhaps even her laugh--after two long years.

'How shall I receive her--what shall I say?'

He was quite sincere in his anxiety and nervousness, for he had really
begun to love this woman once more, but the expression of his
sentiments, whether verbal or otherwise, was ever with him such an
artificial matter, so far removed from truth and simplicity, that he had
recourse to these preparations from pure habit even when, as was the
case now, he was sincerely and deeply moved.

He tried to imagine the scene beforehand, to compose some phrases; he
looked about him in the room, considering where would be the most
appropriate spot for the interview. Then he went over to a looking-glass
to see if his face were as pale as befitted the occasion, and his gaze
rested complacently on his forehead, just where the hair began at the
temples and where, in the old days, Elena was often wont to press a
delicate kiss. In matters of love, his vitiated and effeminate vanity
seized upon every advantage of personal grace or of dress to heighten
the charm of his appearance, and he knew how to extract the greatest
amount of pleasure therefrom. The chief reason of his unfailing success
lay in the fact that, in the game of love, he shrank from no artifice,
no duplicity, no falsehood that might further his cause. A great portion
of his strength lay in his capacity for deception.

'What shall I do--what shall I say when she comes?'

His mind was all undecided and yet the minutes were flying. Besides,