But there was not a line of Mademoiselle's figure that did not speak scorn to me; not a turn of head that did not seem to say, 'Oh, God, that such a thing should breathe.' I had only speech with her once during the day, and that was on the last ridge before we went down into the valley to climb up again to Auch.
The rain had ceased; the sun, near its setting, shone faintly; for a few moments we stood on the brow and looked southwards while we breathed the horses.

The mist lay like a pall on the country we had traversed; but beyond and above it, gleaming pearl-like in the level rays, the line of the mountains stood up like a land of enchantment, soft, radiant, wonderful!--or like one of those castles on the Hill of Glass of which the old romances tell us.

I forgot for an instant how we were placed, and I cried to my neighbour that it was the fairest pageant I had ever seen.
She--it was Mademoiselle, and she had taken off her mask--cast one look at me in answer; only one, but it conveyed disgust and loathing so unspeakable that scorn beside them would have been a gift.

I reined in my horse as if she had struck me, and felt myself go first hot and then cold under her eyes.

Then she looked another way.
But I did not forget the lesson; and after that I avoided her more sedulously than before.