t the attention of people of fashion,
and so quiet as to have escaped the notice of those in search of
pleasure and dissipation. Edna had discovered it accidentally one day
when the high-board gate stood ajar. She caught sight of a little green
table, blotched with the checkered sunlight that filtered through
the quivering leaves overhead. Within she had found the slumbering
mulatresse, the drowsy cat, and a glass of milk which reminded her of
the milk she had tasted in Iberville.

She often stopped there during her perambulations; sometimes taking a
book with her, and sitting an hour or two under the trees when she found
the place deserted. Once or twice she took a quiet dinner there alone,
having instructed Celestine beforehand to prepare no dinner at home. It
was the last place in the city where she would have expected to meet any
one she knew.

Still she was not astonished when, as she was partaking of a modest
dinner late in the afternoon, looking into an open book, stroking the
cat, which had made friends with her--she was not greatly astonished to
see Robert come in at the tall garden gate.

"I am destined to see you only by accident," she said, shoving the
cat off the chair beside her. He was surprised, ill at ease, almost
embarrassed at meeting her thus so unexpectedly.

"Do you come here often?" he asked.

"I almost live here," she said.

"I used to drop in very often for a cup of Catiche's good coffee. This
is the first time since I came back."

"She'll bring you a plate, and you will share my dinner. There's always
enough for two--even three." Edna had intended to be indifferent and as
reserved as he when she met him; she had reached the determination by a
laborious train of reasoning, incident to one of her despondent moods.
But her resolve melted when she saw him before designing Providence had
led him into her path.

"Why have you kept away from me, Robert?" she asked, closing the book
that lay open upon the table.

"Why are you so personal, Mrs. Pontellier? Why do you force me to
idiotic subterfuges?" he exclaimed with sudden warmth. "I suppose
there's no use telling you I've been very busy, or that I've been sick,
or that I've been to see you and not found you at home. Please let me
off with any one of these excuses."

"You are the embodiment of selfishness," she said. "You save yourself
something--I don't know what--but there is some selfish motive, and in
sparing yourself you never consid