full property by our Rita. And I wouldn't have done that if she

hadn't spoken to me of my sister first. I can't tell too many
people about that. One can't trust Rita. I know she doesn't fear

God but perhaps human respect may keep her from taking this house
back from me. If she doesn't want me to talk about her to people

why doesn't she give me a properly stamped piece of paper for it?"
She said all this rapidly in one breath and at the end had a sort

of anxious gasp which gave me the opportunity to voice my surprise.
It was immense.

"That lady, the strange lady, spoke to you of your sister first!" I
cried.

"The lady asked me, after she had been in a little time, whether
really this house belonged to Madame de Lastaola. She had been so

sweet and kind and condescending that I did not mind humiliating my
spirit before such a good Christian. I told her that I didn't know

how the poor sinner in her mad blindness called herself, but that
this house had been given to me truly enough by my sister. She

raised her eyebrows at that but she looked at me at the same time
so kindly, as much as to say, 'Don't trust much to that, my dear

girl,' that I couldn't help taking up her hand, soft as down, and
kissing it. She took it away pretty quick but she was not

offended. But she only said, 'That's very generous on your
sister's part,' in a way that made me run cold all over. I suppose

all the world knows our Rita for a shameless girl. It was then
that the lady took up those glasses on a long gold handle and

looked at me through them till I felt very much abashed. She said
to me, 'There is nothing to be unhappy about. Madame de Lastaola

is a very remarkable person who has done many surprising things.
She is not to be judged like other people and as far as I know she

has never wronged a single human being. . . .' That put heart into
me, I can tell you; and the lady told me then not to disturb her

son. She would wait till he woke up. She knew he was a bad
sleeper. I said to her: 'Why, I can hear the dear sweet gentleman

this moment having his bath in the fencing-room,' and I took her
into the studio. They are there now and they are going to have

their lunch together at twelve o'clock."
"Why on earth didn't you tell me at first that the lady was Mrs.

Blunt?"
"Didn't I? I thought I did," she said innocently. I felt a sudden

desire to get out of that house, to fly from the reinforced Blunt
element which was to me so oppressive.

"I want to get up and dress, Mademoiselle Therese," I said.
She gave a slight start and without looking at me again glided out

of the room, the many folds of her brown skirt remaining
undisturbed as she moved.

I looked at my watch; it was ten o'clock. Therese had been late
with my coffee. The delay was clearly caused by the unexpected

arrival of Mr. Blunt's mother, which might or might not have been
expected by her son. The existence of those Blunts made me feel

uncomfortable in a peculiar way as though they had been the
denizens of another planet with a subtly different point of view

and something in the intelligence which was bound to remain unknown
to me. It caused in me a feeling of inferiority which I intensely

disliked. This did not arise from the actual fact that those
people originated in another continent. I had met Americans

before. And the Blunts were Americans. But so little! That was
the trouble. Captain Blunt might have been a Frenchman as far as

languages, tones, and manners went. But you could not have
mistaken him for one. . . . Why? You couldn't tell. It was

something indefinite. It occurred to me while I was towelling hard
my hair, face, and the back of my neck, that I could not meet J. K.

Blunt on equal terms in any relation of life except perhaps arms in
hand, and in preference with pistols, which are less intimate,

acting at a distance - but arms of some sort. For physically" target="_blank" title="ad.按照自然规律">physically his
life, which could be taken away from him, was exactly like mine,

held on the same terms and of the same vanishing quality.
I would have smiled at my absurdity if all, even the most intimate,

vestige of gaiety had not been crushed out of my heart by the
intolerable weight of my love for Rita. It crushed, it

overshadowed, too, it was immense. If there were any smiles in the
world (which I didn't believe) I could not have seen them. Love

for Rita . . . if it was love, I asked myself despairingly, while I
brushed my hair before a glass. It did not seem to have any sort

of beginning as far as I could remember. A thing the origin of
which you cannot trace cannot be seriously considered. It is an

illusion. Or perhaps mine was a physical state, some sort of
disease akin to melancholia which is a form of insanity? The only

moments of relief I could remember were when she and I would start
squabbling like two passionate infants in a nursery, over anything

under heaven, over a phrase, a word sometimes, in the great light
of the glass rotunda, disregarding the quiet entrances and exits of

the ever-active Rose, in great bursts of voices and peals of
laughter. . . .

I felt tears come into my eyes at the memory of her laughter, the
true memory of the senses almost more penetrating than the reality

itself. It haunted me. All that appertained to her haunted me
with the same awful intimacy, her whole form in the familiar pose,

her very substance in its colour and texture, her eyes, her lips,
the gleam of her teeth, the tawny mist of her hair, the smoothness

of her forehead, the faint scent that she used, the very shape,
feel, and warmth of her high-heeled slipper that would sometimes in

the heat of the discussion drop on the floor with a crash, and
which I would (always in the heat of the discussion) pick up and

toss back on the couch without ceasing to argue. And besides being
haunted by what was Rita on earth I was haunted also by her

waywardness, her gentleness and her flame, by that which the high
gods called Rita when speaking of her amongst themselves. Oh, yes,

certainly I was haunted by her but so was her sister Therese - who
was crazy. It proved nothing. As to her tears, since I had not

caused them, they only aroused my indignation. To put her head on
my shoulder, to weep these strange tears, was nothing short of an

outrageous liberty. It was a mere emotional trick. She would have
just as soon leaned her head against the over-mantel of one of

those tall, red granite chimney-pieces in order to weep
comfortably. And then when she had no longer any need of support

she dispensed with it by simply telling me to go away. How
convenient! The request had sounded pathetic, almost sacredly so,

but then it might have been the exhibition of the coolest possible
impudence. With her one could not tell. Sorrow, indifference,

tears, smiles, all with her seemed to have a hidden meaning.
Nothing could be trusted. . . Heavens! Am I as crazy as Therese I

asked myself with a passing chill of fear, while occupied in
equalizing the ends of my neck-tie.

I felt suddenly that "this sort of thing" would kill me. The
definition of the cause was vague, but the thought itself was no

mere morbid artificiality of sentiment but a genuineconviction.
"That sort of thing" was what I would have to die from. It

wouldn't be from the innumerable doubts. Any sort of certitude
would be also deadly. It wouldn't be from a stab - a kiss would

kill me as surely. It would not be from a frown or from any
particular word or any particular act - but from having to bear

them all, together and in succession - from having to live with
"that sort of thing." About the time I finished with my neck-tie I

had done with life too. I absolutely" target="_blank" title="ad.绝对地；确实">absolutely did not care because I
couldn't tell whether, mentally and physically" target="_blank" title="ad.按照自然规律">physically, from the roots of

my hair to the soles of my feet - whether I was more weary or
unhappy.

And now my toilet was finished, my occupation was gone. An immense
distress descended upon me. It has been observed that the routine

of daily life, that arbitrarysystem of trifles, is a great moral
support. But my toilet was finished, I had nothing more to do of

those things consecrated by usage and which leave you no option.
The exercise of any kind of volition by a man whose consciousness

is reduced to the sensation that he is being killed by "that sort
of thing" cannot be anything but mere trifling with death, an

insincere pose before himself. I wasn't capable of it. It was
then that I discovered that being killed by "that sort of thing," I