umbers. That inflamed
mathematician dreamed of figures, and his Beatrice is the flower of
arithmetic, that is all."

And he lighted his pipe.

Vivian Bell exclaimed:

"Oh, do not talk in that way, Monsieur Choulette. You grieve me much,
and if our friend Monsieur Gebhart heard you, he would not be pleased
with you. To punish you, Prince Albertinelli will read to you the
canticle in which Beatrice explains the spots on the moon. Take the
Divine Comedy, Eusebio. It is the white book which you see on the table.
Open it and read it."

During the Prince's reading, Dechartre, seated on the couch near
Countess Martin, talked of Dante with enthusiasm as the best sculptor
among the poets. He recalled to Therese the painting they had seen
together two days before, on the door of the Servi, a fresco almost
obliterated, where one hardly divined the presence of the poet wearing a
laurel wreath, Florence, and the seven circles. This was enough to exalt
the artist. But she had distinguished nothing, she had not been moved.
And then she confessed that Dante did not attract her. Dechartre,
accustomed to her sharing all his ideas of art and poetry, felt
astonishment and some discontent. He said, aloud:

"There are many grand and strong things which you do not feel."

Miss Bell, lifting her head, asked what were these things that "darling"
did not feel; and when she learned that it was the genius of Dante, she
exclaimed, in mock anger:

"Oh, do you not honor the father, the master worthy of all praise, the
god? I do not love you any more, darling. I detest you."

And, as a reproach to Choulette and to the Countess Martin, she recalled
the piety of that citizen of Florence who took from the altar the
candles that had been lighted in honor of Christ, and placed them before
the bust of Dante.

The Prince resumed his interrupted reading. Dechartre persisted in
trying to make Therese admire what she did not know. Certainly he would
have easily sacrificed Dante and all the poets of the universe for her.
But near him, tranquil, and an object of desire, she irritated him,
almost without his realizing it, by the charm of her laughing beauty. He
persisted in imposing on her his ideas, his artistic passions, even his
fantasy, and his capriciousness. He insisted in a low tone, in phrases
concise and quarrelsome. She said:

"Oh, how violent you are!"

Then he bent to her ear, and in an ardent voice, which he tried to
soften:

"You mus