"Do you believe in Destiny?"
"Yes, I do."
Ill disposed to the sad gravity toward which George's words seemed to tend, she had answered in a light, jesting tone. Hurt, he retorted quickly and bitterly:
"Do you know what day this is?"
Perplexed, uneasy, she asked:
"What day is it?"
He hesitated. Up to then he had avoided recalling to the forgetful woman the anniversary of Demetrius's death; a repugnance that grew every minute prevented him from uttering that holy name, from evoking outside of the sanctuary that noble image. He felt that he would have profaned his religious sorrow in admitting Hippolyte as a participant. And what further intensified this feeling was that he was then passing through one of those frequent periods of cruel lucidity in which he saw in Hippolyte only the woman of pleasure, the "flower of concupiscence," the Enemy. He contained himself; and, with a sudden and false laugh:
"Look!" he cried. "There is a festival at Ortona."
He pointed in the pale-green distance to the maritime city that was being crowned with fire.
"How strange you are to-day!" she said.