of her husband,
realizing with some unaccountable satisfaction that no trace of passion
or excessive and fictitious warmth colored her affection, thereby
threatening its dissolution.

She was fond of her children in an uneven, impulsive way. She would
sometimes gather them passionately to her heart; she would sometimes
forget them. The year before they had spent part of the summer with
their grandmother Pontellier in Iberville. Feeling secure regarding
their happiness and welfare, she did not miss them except with an
occasional intense longing. Their absence was a sort of relief, though
she did not admit this, even to herself. It seemed to free her of a
responsibility which she had blindly assumed and for which Fate had not
fitted her.

Edna did not reveal so much as all this to Madame Ratignolle that summer
day when they sat with faces turned to the sea. But a good part of it
escaped her. She had put her head down on Madame Ratignolle's shoulder.
She was flushed and felt intoxicated with the sound of her own voice and
the unaccustomed taste of candor. It muddled her like wine, or like a
first breath of freedom.

There was the sound of approaching voices. It was Robert, surrounded by
a troop of children, searching for them. The two little Pontelliers were
with him, and he carried Madame Ratignolle's little girl in his arms.
There were other children beside, and two nurse-maids followed, looking
disagreeable and resigned.

The women at once rose and began to shake out their draperies and relax
their muscles. Mrs. Pontellier threw the cushions and rug into the
bath-house. The children all scampered off to the awning, and they stood
there in a line, gazing upon the intruding lovers, still exchanging
their vows and sighs. The lovers got up, with only a silent protest, and
walked slowly away somewhere else.

The children possessed themselves of the tent, and Mrs. Pontellier went
over to join them.

Madame Ratignolle begged Robert to accompany her to the house; she
complained of cramp in her limbs and stiffness of the joints. She leaned
draggingly upon his arm as they walked.

VIII

"Do me a favor, Robert," spoke the pretty woman at his side, almost as
soon as she and Robert had started their slow, homeward way. She looked
up in his face, leaning on his arm beneath the encircling shadow of the
umbrella which he had lifted.

"Granted; as many as you like," he returned, glancing down into her eyes
that were