This second encounter was pure accident. Elaine had no intentions whatever of following the man who had left Arles with such boorish brusqueness, without even the conventional good-bye at the breakfast-table. She had come to Nîmes because she was a worker, because this town contained special material necessary to her bread-winning.
She had guessed that Rivière's hurried departure from Arles was made in order to avoid meeting her. It hurt. Woman-like, she set more value on a few pleasant words of farewell over a breakfast-table and a warm handshake than on a defence from assault at the risk of a man's life. The seeming illogicality of woman is of course a mere surface illusion. It hides a train of reasoning very different to a man's. It is a mental short-cut like an Irishman's "bull," which condenses a whole chain of thought into a single link.
In this case Elaine knew that Rivière's rescue held no personal significance. He did not know at the time that it was she who was being attacked. He would have gone to the defence of any woman under similar circumstances. While altruism appealed to her strongly in a broad, general way, it did not appeal when it came home in such a specific, individual fashion.
On the other hand, a warm handshake at the breakfast-table would have its personal significance. It would be a homage to herself, and not to women in general. Its value would lie in its personal meaning.
While she knew this thought was ungenerous, yet at the same time she knew that behind it there lay a sound basis of reason.
Her pride—that form of pride which is a very wholesome self-respect—made her flush at the thought that Rivière would see her and imagine, in a man's way, that she had followed him to Nîmes. She hurried on past him with a rapid side-glance. The situation was an awkward one. She had her work to do by the old Roman baths and the Druid's Tower on the hillside, and she could not leave Nîmes without doing it.
When he came face to face with her, perhaps it would be best to give a cold bow of formal recognition—the kind of bow that says "Good morning. I'm busy. You're not wanted."
And yet, there was news for him in her possession of which he ought to be informed. It was only fair to the man who had defended her at considerable personal risk that she should do him this small service in return. In her pocket was a cutting of an advertisement in a Parisian paper, several days old, asking for the whereabouts of John Rivière. Very possibly he had not seen it himself. It was only fair to let him know of it. The stitches in his forehead, which she had noted as she hurried past—these called mutely for the small service in return.
Elaine decided to wait until he recognized her, to give him the advertisement, and then to conclude their acquaintanceship with a few formal words of which the meaning would be unmistakable. Accordingly she set her campstool not far away from him, and began her sketching in a vigorous, characteristic fashion.
It was an hour or more before her intuition warned her that Rivière was approaching from behind. As he passed, she raised her eyes quite naturally as though to look at the subject she was finishing. Their eyes met. Rivière raised his hat politely but without any special significance. His attitude conveyed no desire to renew their acquaintance. He did not stop to exchange a few words, as she expected.