It seemed to her that there had been something dignified, noble almost, in the answer she had made, with a smile that acknowledged the fact that the world had scruples on such accounts as these: "_Cela m'est absolument egal!_" So far as the life went it was perfect.

The Quartier spoke and her soul answered it, and the world had nothing to compare with a conversation like that.

But the question of production, of achievement, was beginning to bring her moments when she had a terrible sensation that the temperature of her passion was chilled.

She had not yet seen despair, but she had now and then lost her hold of herself, and she had made acquaintance with fear.

There had been no vivid realization of failure, but a problem was beginning to form in her mind, and with it a distinct terror of the solution, which sometimes found a shape in her dreams.