“All this sounds rather horrible,” she added, “but I suppose it isn’t really. At all events, he is greatly respected here by all men of learning.”
“If an opportunity arises,” I said, “will you introduce me to her? What I mean is, I don’t want the introduction to be conspicuous.”
“You’ll find her very charming,” she said, as I walked away.
And later on Madame presented me to Judith.
From the very first moment we talked without restraint. But then, as I learned afterwards, she was never restrained with anybody. She was utterly frank and natural; interesting, too; full of curiosity about life.
What appealed to me most in her, I think, was her careful choice of words when discussing any subject that really mattered. Her speech was free from all exaggeration; she never invented opinions on the spur of the moment as so many people do in casual conversation. This pleased and attracted me. But there was something in her that repelled—that kept me at a distance. All the time we talked, I felt that the best part of her—the most exquisite part—was on the other side of the room with her husband. She was not really with me: she was with him. I resented this. I had no right to resent it; but I did. For, already, I was in love with her.
Lovers move craftily. So I sought out her husband and was presented to him. He looked me over carefully.
“You have been talking to my wife,” he observed.
“Yes,” said I. “We have been talking to each other.”