He thought her to be star-gazing; but she was not.

She was endeavoring to see where Maurice and the countess were.
"Madame, shall I tell you a secret ?" "A secret?
Tell me," sitting in the chair next to his.
"This has been the pleasantest week I have known in thirteen years." "Then you forgive me!" Madame was not only mistress of music but of tones.
"Yes." And then, out of the fullness of his lonely heart, he told her all about his life, its emptiness, its deserts, its longings.

Each sentence was a knife placed in her hands; and as she contemplated his honest face which could conceal nothing, his earnest eyes which could hide nothing, Madame was conscious of a vague distrust of herself.

If only he had offered to fight, she thought.

But he had not; instead, he was giving to her all his weapons of defense.
"Ah, Monsieur, you do wrong to forgive me!" impulsively.
He smiled.
"Why should you be friendly to me when I represent all that is antagonistic to you ?" "To me you represent only a beautiful woman." "Ah; you have been taking lessons of your friend." "He is a good teacher.