on of Epicurus. She desired always that her visible corporeal
self should be admired and desired, that men should say, "What a
splendid creature!" It was in her veins, an undefined philosophy
of life; and she had ever measured the love of Jean Jacques by his
caresses. She had no other vital standard. This she could measure, she
could grasp it and say, "Here I have a hold; it is so much harvested."
But if some one had written her a poem a thousand verses long, she would
have said, "Yes, all very fine, but let me see what it means; let me
feel that it is so."

She had an inherent love of luxury and pleasure, which was far more
active in her now than when she married Jean Jacques. For a Spanish
woman she had matured late; and that was because, in her youth, she had
been active and athletic, unlike most Spanish girls; and the microbes of
a sensuous life, or what might have become a sensual life, had not good
chance to breed.

It all came, however, in the dullness of the winter days and nights, in
the time of deep snows, when they could go abroad but very little. Then
her body and her mind seemed to long for the indolent sun-spaces of
Spain. The artificial heat of the big stoves in the rooms with the low
ceilings only irritated her, and she felt herself growing more ample
from lassitude of the flesh. This particular autumn it seemed to her
that she could not get through another winter without something going
wrong, without a crisis of some sort. She felt the need of excitement,
of change. She had the desire for pleasures undefined.

Then George Masson came, and the undefined took form almost at once.
It was no case of the hunter pursuing his prey with all the craft and
subtlety of his trade. She had answered his look with spontaneity, due
to the fact that she had been surprised into the candour of her feelings
by the appearance of one who had the boldness of a brigand, the health
of a Hercules, and the intelligence of a primitive Jesuit. He had not
hesitated; he had yielded himself to the sumptuous attraction, and the
fire in his eyes was only the window of the furnace within him. He had
gone headlong to the conquest, and by sheer force of temperament and
weight of passion he had swept her off her feet.

He had now come to the last day of his duty at the Mill Cartier, when
all he had to do was to inspect the work done, give assurance and
guarantee that it was all right, and receive his cheque from Jean
Jacques. He had co