The mystery of John Rivière intrigued Elaine. There was certainly a mysterious something about this man which she had not fathomed. His most open confidences held deep reserves. If he had not avowed himself a scientist, she would have classed him as a man of business. In those brief comments on Stock Exchange speculation, he had spoken in a tone of easy authority which goes only with intimate knowledge. He was no recluse, but a man of the world—a man who had clearly moved amongst men and women and held his place with ease.
The idea that he was a boor had been entirely shelved. But why that brusque, boorish disappearance from Arles?
Elaine, thinking matters over in the solitude of her room on the evening of the second encounter, was beginning to regret her resolve to humble John Rivière. It began to appear petty and unworthy. She had no doubt now that she could bring him to her feet if she wished, by skilful acting. Or even—in her thoughts she whispered it to herself—or even without acting a part.
But that thought she thrust aside. She had her work to do in the world—the work that she loved. It called imperiously for all her energies. She was free, she was independent, her daily bread was of her own buying; and she wished circumstances to remain as they were.
Elaine decided to give up her petty resolve. She would avoid meeting him intentionally, and if they met, she would bring the plane of conversation down again to the superficiality of mere tourist acquaintanceship—"meet to-day and part to-morrow."
For his part, Rivière had found keen enjoyment in this frank camaraderie. They met as equals on the mental plane. Both were profoundly interested in their respective life-work. They held ideas in common on a score of impersonal topics. He told himself that he had behaved very boorishly in his abrupt departure from Arles. It had been unnecessary, as Chance had now pointed out to him by this second accidental encounter. This acquaintanceship was the merest passing of "ships that pass in the night"—in a day or two she would be away and back to Paris, and in all human probability they would never meet again.
It was generous of her to have greeted him as though she had not noticed the abruptness of his departure from Arles. It was generous of her to have clipped out the newspaper advertisement and to have called his attention to it. He mentally apologized to her for his curt behaviour.
The next morning, Rivière did not find Elaine at the Jardin de la Fontaine. He wanted to meet her. He wanted to let her know indirectly what he was feeling. And so, almost unconsciously, he found himself walking away from the Jardin towards the centre of the town, towards the ruined arena and the Roman temple known as the Maison Carrée. Most probably she would be sketching at one or other of them.
He found her at the Maison Carrée—a square Roman temple on which Time has laid no rougher hand than on a white-haired mother still rosy of cheek and young of heart. Elaine was sketching it in her book with the bold lines of the scene-painter, ignoring detail and working only for the high-lights and deep shadows. Round her, peeking over her shoulders and chattering shrilly, were a group of children. In the background lounged a young Provençal peasant with a nose twisted out of shape.
"Shall I lure the children away?" asked Rivière as he raised his soft felt hat.