her satin slippers stepping on each other just as she had left them. She
looked at herself in the glass; she did not look so very different. A
headache had often ravaged her appearance more.

She had always thought herself a coward, she feared death with a terrible
repugnance; but now she found, to her surprise, that she would have
light-heartedly changed places with her husband. She had much more
courage to die than to watch him die--to watch Vincent die, to see him
day by day grow weak and pitiful. That was what was intolerable. If he
would only die now, to-night, or if she could! It was at this moment that
the kitchen maid had heard her sobbing.

Because there was nothing else to do, she got into bed, and lay there
staring at the electric light, which she had forgotten to put out. Toward
seven she got up and gave orders that Mr. Farron was not to be disturbed,
that the house was to be kept quiet. Strange, she thought, that he could
sleep like an exhausted child, while she, awake, was a mass of pain. Her
heart ached, her eyes burned, her very body felt sore. She arranged for
his sleep, but she wanted him to wake up; she begrudged every moment of
his absence. Alas! she thought, how long would she continue to do so?

Yet with her suffering came a wonderful ease, an ability to deal with the
details of life. When at eight o'clock her maid came in and, pulling the
curtains, exclaimed with Gallic candor, "Oh, comme madame a mauvaise mine
ce matin!" she smiled at her with unusual gentleness. Later, when
Mathilde came down at her accustomed hour, and lying across the foot of
her mother's bed, began to read her scraps of the morning paper, Adelaide
felt a rush of tenderness for the child, who was so unaware of the
hideous bargain life really was. Surprising as it was, she found she
could talk more easily than usual and with a more undivided attention,