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r comprehended before swept through Martin from head to foot. He knew with absolute knowledge that should she rise and, with a nod of her head, invite Bigourdin to follow her t


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o the verandah, she could be mistress absolute of Bigourdin’s destiny. He held his breath, for the first time in his dull life conscious of the meaning of love of women, consc

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ious of eternal drama. He looked at Corinna smiling with ironic curl of lip up at the impassioned man. And he had an almost physical feeling within him as though his heart sank like a stone. But a week ago she had declared, with a vulgarity of which he had not thought her capable, that she had had the flirtation of her life with Bigourdin. She must have known then, she must know now that the man was in soul-strung earnest. What was her attitude to the major things of Life? His brain worked swiftly. If, in her middle-class English snobbery, she despised the French innkeeper,

operation in her cool way and when it was o


why did she admit him to her social plane on which alone flirtation—he had a sensitive gentleman’s horror of the word—was possible? If she accepted him as a social equal, recognising in him, as he, Martin, recognised, all that was vital in mo


dern France—if she accepted him, woman accepting man, why that infernal smile on her pretty face? I must give you to understand that Martin knew nothing whatever about women. His ignorance placed him in this dilemma. He watched Corinna’s lips e


ager to hear what words would issue from them. She said coolly: “So long as this really is the end of Polydore, honour is satisfied.” Bigourdin stiffened under her gaze, and collecting himself, bowed formally. “As to that, Mademoiselle,” s


aid he, “I give you my absolute assurance.” He turned to the commercial travellers. “Messieurs, I ask your pardon. You will not have to wait any longer. Viens, Félise.” And landlord and niece took Polydore’s place for the rest of the meal.


“Bigourdin’s a splendid fellow,” said Martin. Elbow on table s


he held a morsel of bread to her lips. “He waits so well, doesn’t


he?” she said. He shrugged his shoulders. What was the use of argu


ing with a being with totally different standards and conception of

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values? Some little wisdom he was beginning to acquire. He spent the

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evening at the Café de Périgueux with Bigourdin, who, with an unw


onted cloud on his brow, abused the Government in atrabiliar terms. The next morning Corinna, attired in her daintiest, wandered off to sketch lonely and demure. At déjeuner she made a pretence of eating and entertained Martin with uninteresting and (to him) unintelligible criticism of Parisian actors. Bigourdin passed a moment or two of professional commonplace at the table and retired. An inexperienced young woman of the town, with the chambermaid’s assistance, replaced the villain of last night’s tragedy. Corinna continued her hectic conversation and took little acco

01 Hell world

unt of Martin’s casual remarks. A mind even less subtle than her companion’s would have assigned some nervous disturbance as a reason for such fever

ed into th

02 Aenean nec eros

ish behaviour. But of what nature the disturbance? Vaguely he associated it with the Sundayfied raiment. Could it be that she intended, without drum o

e huge man

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r trumpet, to fly from Brant?me? “By the way, Martin,” she said suddenly, when the last wizened grape had been eaten, “have you ever taken those s

’s soul.
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