Erard shrugged his shoulders and smiled. “Very well, as you wish.”
“As long as I remain Mrs. Wilbur,” she blushed quickly, “I think I can’t be quite another ‘good fellow.’ I have some obligations to do the silly things other people do.”
They had no further talk about the matter. Erard had practically won his point; she knew it, and after he had left her before the dying wood-fire, she sat rather despondent in the gloom of the deserted salon. She did not wish to make loneliness and isolation for herself in her efforts to be free, and she was not prepared to discard altogether the observances of conventional society.
To be sure, Erard was not like other men, she comforted herself with reflecting. One could have an entirely neutral, passionless intercourse with him. He was solely concerned with ideas and impressions, and considered persons about as much as the traveller does the furnishing of his lodging. They were either suitable for his convenience or not, and his interest did not extend beyond the limited use he put them to. When she betook herself to the dusty, unused room with its spacious curtained four-poster and creaking board-floor, her mind still occupied itself with Erard. Was she satisfied to have him so neutral? If he had been an impulsive, passionate man,—if he had taken his inspiration from the suffering she had undergone at the picture-dealer’s and had demanded—well, more than discipleship, he might have had it. She was not mere intellect, far from it!
She lay awake in the still room pondering that wilful fancy. If he had forgotten nothing, extenuated nothing, counselled nothing; if he had plead for the greatest love that she was capable of giving, he might have been—her heart fluttered at the wild idea—master for a long day. Some little solvent would touch the story of their lives, and transmute the relationship. For there are times when it is better to carry a place by storm than by slow siege. How foolish! He was Erard, and it was absurd to consider him sentimentally.
When Erard called for Mrs. Wilbur the next morning, he found her in the patronne’s cabinet, chatting vivaciously. The morning was superb, inviting them to a prowl in the city. After déjeuner they took the train for Chârtres. One thing suggested another, these beautiful days of the second autumn, and it was late Wednesday night before Erard left Mrs. Wilbur at her hotel on the Quai. When she entered her salon she found Molly Parker sitting forlornly before the grate.
“Where have you been, Adela? I got in last night,” Molly exclaimed reproachfully.
“I have been—out of the city,” Mrs. Wilbur replied evasively.
“Not with Erard and alone!” Molly’s mobile face showed quick alarm.
“Yes,” her friend replied stonily, “with Mr. Erard and alone.”