l again, she replied: "Why, of course!" putting out
her hand, which she withdrew the next moment.

From that time forth, Frederick increased his visits. He promised extra
fares to the cabman who drove him. But often he grew impatient at the
slow pace of the horse, and, alighting on the ground, he would make a
dash after an omnibus, and climb to the top of it out of breath. Then
with what disdain he surveyed the faces of those around him, who were
not going to see her!

He could distinguish her house at a distance, with an enormous
honeysuckle covering, on one side, the planks of the roof. It was a kind
of Swiss chalet, painted red, with a balcony outside. In the garden
there were three old chestnut-trees, and on a rising ground in the
centre might be seen a parasol made of thatch, held up by the trunk of a
tree. Under the slatework lining the walls, a big vine-tree, badly
fastened, hung from one place to another after the fashion of a rotten
cable. The gate-bell, which it was rather hard to pull, was slow in
ringing, and a long time always elapsed before it was answered. On each
occasion he experienced a pang of suspense, a fear born of irresolution.

Then his ears would be greeted with the pattering of the servant-maid's
slippers over the gravel, or else Madame Arnoux herself would make her
appearance. One day he came up behind her just as she was stooping down
in the act of gathering violets.

Her daughter's capricious disposition had made it necessary to send the
girl to a convent. Her little son was at school every afternoon. Arnoux
was now in the habit of taking prolonged luncheons at the Palais-Royal
with Regimbart and their friend Compain. They gave themselves no bother
about anything that occurred, no matter how disagreeable it might be.

It was clearly understood between Frederick and her that they should not
belong to each other. By this convention they were preserved from
danger, and they found it easier to pour out their hearts to each other.

She told him all about her early life at Chartres, which she spent with
her mother, her devotion when she had reached her twelfth year, then her
passion for music, when she used to sing till nightfall in her little
room, from which the ramparts could be seen.

He related to her how melancholy broodings had haunted him at college,
and how a woman's face shone brightly in the cloudland of his
imagination, so that, when he first laid eyes upon her, he felt that her