assistance. In this moment of extreme peril she defended herself courageously. She kept saying: “No! . . . No! . . . I will not love you. I should love you too well. . . .” Nevertheless she succumbed.
In the sweet familiarity which followed their mutual astonishment she said to him:
“I have often asked after you. I knew that you were an assiduous frequenter of the playhouses at Montmartre,—that you were often seen with Mademoiselle Bouchotte, who, nevertheless, is not at all pretty. I knew that you had become very smart, and that you were making a good deal of money. I was not surprised. You were born to succeed. The day of your”—and she pointed at the spot between the window and the wardrobe with the mirror—“apparition, I was vexed with Maurice for having given you a suicide’s rags to wear. You pleased me. . . . Oh, it was not your good looks! Don’t think that women are as sensitive as people say to outward attractions. We consider other things in love, There is a sort of—— Well, anyhow I loved you as soon as I saw you.”
The shadows grew deeper.
She asked:
“You are not an angel, are you? Maurice believes you are; but he believes so many things, Maurice.” She questioned Arcade with her eyes
