She looked upon morality as pure matter of conventionality, and she made no secret of her thoughts.

She was always on the alert for new discoveries, fresh experiences; she never waited to read a book to the end before flinging it into the waste-paper basket, most frequently the first chapter sufficed; she had met with many disappointments, she had wearied of many caprices, and she had arrived at the conclusion that man is, after all, of but small account.

Nevertheless, there had come to her late in life a comparatively lasting caprice; during nearly five years she had flattered herself that she had found what she sought.

Alas! for the first time she had been abandoned, forsaken, and that before she had herself grown tired of her fancy.

This desertion had inflicted a sharp wound on her pride; she had conceived an implacable hatred for the faithless one, and then she had forgotten him.