was Honorine's consent, and how impossible it was to wring it from
her. Could she guess the storms that distracted me when I left as when
I came?

"'At last I painted my situation in a letter to her, giving up the
attempt to speak of it. Honorine made no answer, and she was so sad
that I made as though I had not written. I was deeply grieved by the
idea that I could have distressed her; she read my heart and forgave
me. And this was how. Three days ago she received me, for the first
time, in her own blue-and-white room. It was bright with flowers,
dressed, and lighted up. Honorine was in a dress that made her
bewitching. Her hair framed that face that you know in its light
curls; and in it were some sprays of Cape heath; she wore a white
muslin gown, a white sash with long floating ends. You know what she
is in such simplicity, but that day she was a bride, the Honorine of
long past days. My joy was chilled at once, for her face was terribly
grave; there were fires beneath the ice.

"'"Octave," she said, "I will return as your wife when you will. But
understand clearly that this submission has its dangers. I can be
resigned----"

"'I made a movement.

"'"Yes," she went on, "I understand: resignation offends you, and
you want what I cannot give--Love. Religion and pity led me to
renounce my vow of solitude; you are here!" She paused.

"'"At first," she went on, "you asked no more. Now you demand your
wife. Well, here I give you Honorine, such as she is, without