"But is not every story that has to do with the workings of the human soul? What one of us has not buried in him a story quite as strange? Even you--"
"Monsieur deceives himself. I am simply--what you see."
"But what I see is not simple, but complex and intriguing beyond expression. A woman of your sort walling herself up in a wilderness, renouncing the world, renouncing life itself in its very heyday--!"
"But hardly that, monsieur."
"Then I am stupid..."
"I will explain." The sleekly coiffured brown head bent low over hands that played absently with their jewels. "To a woman of my sort, monsieur, life is not life without love. I lived once for a little time, then love was taken out of my life. When my sorrow had spent itself, I knew that I must find love again if I were to go on living. What was I to do? I knew that love is not found through seeking. So I waited..."
"Such philosophy is rare, madame."
"Philosophy? No: I will not call it that. It was knowledge--the heart wise in its own wisdom, surpassing mine, telling me that if I would but be patient love would one day seek me out again, wherever I might wait, and give me once more--life."
She rose and went to the window, paused there, turning back to Duchemin a face composed but fairer for a deepened flush.
"But this is not writing to my bankers, monsieur," she said in a changed but steady voice. "I must do that at once if I am to get the letter in to-day's post."