y! no! I didn't get so deep in their regard. I fear they made more
impression on me than I made on them."

"You were less fortunate than Robert, then."

"I am always less fortunate than Robert. Has he been imparting tender
confidences?"

"I've been imposing myself long enough," said Robert, rising, and
shaking hands with Edna. "Please convey my regards to Mr. Pontellier
when you write."

He shook hands with Arobin and went away.

"Fine fellow, that Lebrun," said Arobin when Robert had gone. "I never
heard you speak of him."

"I knew him last summer at Grand Isle," she replied. "Here is that
photograph of yours. Don't you want it?"

"What do I want with it? Throw it away." She threw it back on the table.

"I'm not going to Mrs. Merriman's," she said. "If you see her, tell her
so. But perhaps I had better write. I think I shall write now, and say
that I am sorry her child is sick, and tell her not to count on me."

"It would be a good scheme," acquiesced Arobin. "I don't blame you;
stupid lot!"

Edna opened the blotter, and having procured paper and pen, began to
write the note. Arobin lit a cigar and read the evening paper, which he
had in his pocket.

"What is the date?" she asked. He told her.

"Will you mail this for me when you go out?"

"Certainly." He read to her little bits out of the newspaper, while she
straightened things on the table.

"What do you want to do?" he asked, throwing aside the paper. "Do you
want to go out for a walk or a drive or anything? It would be a fine
night to drive."

"No; I don't want to do anything but just be quiet. You go away and
amuse yourself. Don't stay."

"I'll go away if I must; but I shan't amuse myself. You know that I only
live when I am near you."

He stood up to bid her good night.

"Is that one of the things you always say to women?"

"I have said it before, but I don't think I ever came so near meaning
it," he answered with a smile. There were no warm lights in her eyes;
only a dreamy, absent look.

"Good night. I adore you. Sleep well," he said, and he kissed her hand
and went away.

She stayed alone in a kind of reverie--a sort of stupor. Step by step
she lived over every instant of the time she had been with Robert after
he had entered Mademoiselle Reisz's door. She recalled his words,
his looks. How few and meager they had been for her hungry heart! A
vision--a transcendently seductive vision of a Mexican girl arose before
her. She writhed