"Ah, that's just the point. The feminine side of you is exactly what we don't want. One Félise Rivaz is enough, most of us think. Try and keep the elfish boy you were when you arrived. It will be less trouble, Fatalité, ma chère. With the other thing there are always complications. No, I'm not accusing you of falling in love with Vardri. I only say, be careful. Even an elf-child can develop suddenly into a woman once she arrives at a knowledge of the fact that there is a man ready to make love to her. Perhaps you do not know it yourself, but you have changed lately. You are losing your fearlessness, your indifference. I have watched you sometimes when you have not known, and have seen your eyes soften, your face change. You started when I spoke just now."
"How did you learn things about women? From books?"
"Books? Ma foi, no! I liked them well enough at one time, when I hadn't studied la vie. Now they're fâde."
Arithelli was silent for a little while. She knew only too well that Emile had spoken the truth, had put into blunt words what to herself was only a vague, half-formed idea. Her illness had been Vardri's golden harvest time, for it had given him the chance of being often alone with her. He had read to her, waited upon her, served her with the utmost chivalry and devotion. He had made of her a Madonna, a goddess, she who was fair game for all other men in Barcelona.
Emile's voice broke in upon her meditations.
"You shouldn't worry, Fatalité. It's not becoming. Have a cigarette to make yourself a little distraction."
She shook her head.
"No, thank you, Emile. I never wanted to smoke, and any way it would not give me a distraction to-night."
"Then what are you worrying about?"
"I've only been wondering what will be the end of me."