mily at the fitful
flames.

I rose and went upstairs to fetch a volume which I wanted. Both of
them, the dog and she, accompanied me, yawning and stretching themselves
as they went. They stood beside the book-case, like two witnesses,
equally useless and equally indispensable, and watched me searching. I
shivered in the cold room. Rose gave a little cough; and the dog tried
to curl himself up in the folds of my skirt.

Then we all three went down again; and, when I had gone back to my
place, they docilely resumed theirs on either side of the chimney.

The dog, before settling down, turned several times on his cushion,
arching his back, with his tail between his legs and his critical nose
quivering with satisfaction. Rose also has seen that her armchair is as
comfortable as it can be made. Now, lying back luxuriously, with her
elbows on the rests and her head on a soft cushion, she is evidently not
much troubled at the thought of a long day indoors.

2

In the two months since Rose left Sainte-Colombe, I have drilled her
into an intermittent attempt at style which is the utmost that she will
ever achieve, I fear; for her will, unhappily, is incapable of
sustained effort. When she has to hold herself upright for several hours
at a time, I see her gradually stooping as though invisible forces were
dragging her down.

Certainly, it is no longer the Rose of Sainte-Colombe who is here beside
me. How much of her remains? Her general appearance is transformed by
her clothes and the way in which she wears her hair; her voice and
gestures are softer; but all this minute and complex change is but the
subtle effect of events, the disconcerting effect of an influence that
has laid itself upon her nature without altering it in any way. And this
is what really causes my uneasiness. She is changed, but she has not
changed.

I take her with me wherever I have to go. She accompanies me on my walks
and drives, in my shopping, to the play. Men consider her beautiful, but
her indifference keeps love at a distance: love, the passion in which I
placed, in which I still place the hopes that remain to me.

3

As for Rose herself, she is always pleased, without being enthusiastic,
and never expresses a wish or a desire.

I sometimes laugh and say:

"You have a weatherproof soul; and your common sense is as starched as
your Sunday cap used to be!"

But at heart she saddens me. To keep my interest in her alive, I find
myself w