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conscious of the child’s stare of astonishment.
    “I’ll go and fetch her, Aunt Thérèse.”
    Mme. de Fontanin waited in the hall. Her heart was beating so rapidly that she pressed her hand to her breast and dared not take it away. She tried to bring her emotions under control. The drawing-room door was open and the sun was bringing out the sheen of the velvet curtains and the colours of the carpet. The room had the carless elegance of a bachelor’s “den.” “And they said her divorce had left her penniless,” Mme. de Fontanin murmured. The thought reminded her that her husband had not sent her any money for two months; how was she to meet this month’s bills? And, following it, another thought crossed her mind: could Noémie’s unexpected opulence have come from—him?
    Nicole did not return. Not a sound could be heard. More and more ill at ease, Mme. de Fontanin entered the drawing-room and sat down. The piano was open; a fashion paper was lying on the sofa; cigarettes lay on a low table; there was a bunch of red carnations in a vase. The more she looked around her, the more disturbed she felt. What could it be?
    Because he was here, and his presence filled the room. It was he who had pushed the piano at that angle to the window, exactly as in her own home. It was he who had left it open or, if not he, it was for his sake that music lay scattered on it. It was he who had insisted on that wide, low sofa and the cigarette-box within easy reach. And it was he whom she now pictured there, lolling amongst the cushions, spruce and debonair as usual, gay eyes flashing under the long lashes, an arm dangling over the sofa edge, a cigarette between his fingers.
    A soft, rustling sound made her start. Noémie had just entered, in a lace-trimmed dressing-gown, her arm resting on her daughter’s shoulder. She was a tall, dark, and rather plump woman of thirty-five.
    “Good morning, Thérèse; you must excuse me. I’ve had such a frightful headache all day, it’s laid me out completely. Nicole dear, will you pull down the blind?”
    The sparkle of her eyes and the healthy pink cheeks gave her the lie. Her volubility betrayed the embarrassment she felt at Thérèse’s visit, an embarrassment that grew to alarm when the latter, turning towards the child, said gently:
    “There’s something I want to talk to your mother about, darling. Would you leave us alone for a few minutes?”
    “Run off to your room, Nicole, and do your lessons there.” Noémie turned to her cousin with a high-pitched, unnatural laugh. “Children of that age are so annoying, aren’t they?—always wanting to show off in the drawing-room. Is Jenny like that? I’m afraid I was just the same, do you remember? It used to drive poor Mother to despair.”
    The object of Mme. de Fontanin’s visit had been only to get the address she required. But now she was here, Jerome’s presence had made itself so strongly felt, the injury done her seemed so flagrant, and the sight of Noémie flaunting her rather vulgar beauty in this room offended her so deeply that once again she gave way to impulse and came to a sudden, desperate decision.
    “Do sit down, Thérèse,” Noémie said.
    Instead of sitting down, Thérèse walked towards her cousin and held out her hand. The gesture was not in the least theatrical; it was too spontaneous,’ too dignified for that.
    “Noémie, give me back my husband!” The words came with a rush. The smile froze on Mme. Petit-Dutreuil’s lips. Mme. de Fontanin was still holding her hand. “You needn’t answer. I’m not blaming you—I know only too well what he is.” She paused for a moment, breathless. Noémie did not take advantage of the moment to defend herself, and Mme. de Fontanin was glad of her silence, not that it was tantamount to a confession but because it showed that she was not so hardened as to be able to parry such a home-thrust on the spur of the moment.
    “Listen, Noémie,” Mme. de Fontanin continued.