He fancied that she wore the lustrous black silk, with the breadths of white Venetian lace about the neck which he had praised, because he praised it.

Her cheeks burned with a Jacqueminot crimson; what should be white in her face was chalky white.

She carried a plumed ostrich fan, black and soft, and after giving him her hand, sat down and waved it to and fro slowly, as he remembered her doing the night they first met.

She had no ideas, except such as related intimately to herself, and she had no gabble, like Mela; and she let him talk.

It was past the day when she promised herself she would forgive him; but as he talked on she felt all her passion for him revive, and the conflict of desires, the desire to hate, the desire to love, made a dizzying whirl in her brain.