That morning, when he had first come to her, she had fastened her glance upon him more than once, and she had seen him turn a shade paler, had noticed the drooping of his lids and the relaxation of his hands.
She had sought him in the street, guided by something surer than instinct, she had found him, had read his thoughts, and had felt him yielding to her fixed determination.

Then, suddenly, her power had left her, and as she walked beside him, she knew that if she looked into his face she would blush and be confused like a shy girl.

She almost wished that he would leave her without a word and without an apology.
It was not possible, however, to prolong the silence much longer.

A vague fear seized her.

Had she really lost all her dominating strength in the first moments of the first sincere passion she had ever felt?
Was she reduced to weakness by his presence, and unable so much as to sustain a fragmentary conversation, let alone suggesting to his mind the turn it should take?
She was ashamed of her poverty of spirit in the emergency.