ntie the packet, but he stretched out his hand and stopped
her.

"No, I didn't come from Paris to read my letters, or even to hear you
read them! I came to hear about this Monsieur Delarey."

Selim stole in with tea and stole out silently, shutting the door this
time. As soon as he had gone, Artois drew a case from his pocket, took
out of it a pipe, filled it, and lit it. Meanwhile, Hermione poured out
tea, and, putting three lumps of sugar into one of the cups, handed it to
Artois.

"I haven't come to protest. You know we both worship individual freedom.
How often in those letters haven't we written it--our respect of the
right of the individual to act for him or herself, without the
interference of outsiders? No, I've come to hear about it all, to hear
how you managed to get into the pleasant state of mania."

On the last words his deep voice sounded sarcastic, almost patronizing.
Hermione fired up at once.

"None of that from you, Emile!" she exclaimed.

Artois stirred his tea rather more than was necessary, but did not begin
to drink it.

"You mustn't look down on me from a height," she continued. "I won't have
it. We're all on a level when we're doing certain things, when we're
truly living, simply, frankly, following our fates, and when we're dying.
You feel that. Drop the analyst, dear Emile, drop the professional point
of view. I see right through it into your warm old heart. I never was
afraid of you, although I place you high, higher than your critics,
higher than your public, higher than you place yourself. Every woman
ought to be able to love, and every man. There's nothing at all absurd in
the fact, though there may be infinite absurdities in the manifestation
of it. But those you haven't yet had an opportunity of seeing in me, so
you've nothing yet to laugh at or label. Now drink your tea."

He laughed a loud, roaring laugh, drank some of his tea, puffed out a
cloud of smoke, and said:

"Whom will you ever respect?"

"Every one who is sincere--myself included."

"Be sincere with me now, and I'll go back to Paris to-morrow like a shorn
lamb. Be sincere about Monsieur Delarey."

Hermione sat quite still for a moment with the bundle of letters in her
lap. At last she said:

"It's difficult sometimes to tell the truth about a feeling, isn't it?"

"Ah, you don't know yourself what the truth is."

"I'm not sure that I do. The history of the growth of a feeling may be
almost more complicated th