She in her corner tried to be angry, to harden her heart, to possess herself only with the thought of Taranne's letter. But the evening was not as the morning. That dark teasing figure at the other end, outlined against the light of the window, intruded, took up a share in her reverie she resented but could not prevent nay, presently absorbed it altogether. Absurd! she had had love made to her before, and had known how to deal with it. The artist must have comrades, and the comrades may play false; well, then the artist must take care of herself.
She had done no harm; she was not to blame; she had let him know from the beginning that she only lived for art. What folly, and what treacherous, inconsiderate folly, it had all been!
So she lashed herself up. But her look stole incessantly to that opposite corner, and every now and then she felt her lips trembling and her eyes growing hot in a way which annoyed her.
When they reached Paris she said to him imperiously as he helped her out of the carriage, 'A cab, please!'
He found one for her, and would have closed the door upon her.
'No, come in!' she said to him with the same accent.
His look in return was like a blow to her, there was such an inarticulate misery in it. But he got in, and they drove on in silence.
When they reached the Rue Chantal she sprang out, snatched her key from the concierge, and ran up the stairs. But when she reached the point on that top passage where their ways diverged, she stopped and looked back for him.
'Come and see my letter,' she said to him, hesitating.
He stood quite still, his arms hanging beside him, and drew a long breath that stabbed her.