Isabel, as she herself grew older, became acquainted with revulsions, with disgusts; there were days when the world looked black and she asked herself with some sharpness what it was that she was pretending to live for.

Her old habit had been to live by enthusiasm, to fall in love with suddenly-perceived possibilities, with the idea of some new adventure.

As a younger person she had been used to proceed from one little exaltation to the other: there were scarcely any dull places between.

But Madame Merle had suppressed enthusiasm; she fell in love now-a-days with nothing; she lived entirely by reason and by wisdom.

There were hours when Isabel would have given anything for lessons in this art; if her brilliant friend had been near she would have made an appeal to her.