Edna Pontellier, casting her eyes about, had finally kept them
at rest upon the sea. The day was clear and carried the gaze out

as far as the blue sky went; there were a few white clouds
suspended idly over the horizon. A lateen sail was visible in the

direction of Cat Island, and others to the south seemed almost
motionless in the far distance.

"Of whom--of what are you thinking?" asked Adele of her
companion, whose countenance she had been watching with a little

amused attention, arrested by the absorbed expression which seemed
to have seized and fixed every feature into a statuesque repose.

"Nothing," returned Mrs. Pontellier, with a start, adding at
once: "How stupid! But it seems to me it is the reply we make

instinctively to such a question. Let me see," she went on,
throwing back her head and narrowing her fine eyes till they shone

like two vivid points of light. "Let me see. I was really not
conscious of thinking of anything; but perhaps I can retrace my

thoughts."
"Oh! never mind!" laughed Madame Ratignolle. "I am not quite

so exacting. I will let you off this time. It is really too hot
to think, especially to think about thinking."

"But for the fun of it," persisted Edna. "First of all, the
sight of the water stretching so far away, those motionless sails

against the blue sky, made a delicious picture that I just wanted
to sit and look at. The hot wind beating in my face made me

think--without any connection that I can trace of a summer day in
Kentucky, of a meadow that seemed as big as the ocean to the very

little girl walking through the grass, which was higher than her
waist. She threw out her arms as if swimming when she walked,

beating the tall grass as one strikes out in the water. Oh, I see
the connection now!"

"Where were you going that day in Kentucky, walking through
the grass?"

"I don't remember now. I was just walking diagonally across
a big field. My sun-bonnet obstructed the view. I could see only

the stretch of green before me, and I felt as if I must walk on
forever, without coming to the end of it. I don't remember whether

I was frightened or pleased. I must have been entertained.
"Likely as not it was Sunday," she laughed; "and I was running

away from prayers, from the Presbyterian service, read in a spirit
of gloom by my father that chills me yet to think of."

"And have you been running away from prayers ever since, ma
chere?" asked Madame Ratignolle, amused.

"No! oh, no!" Edna hastened to say. "I was a little
unthinking child in those days, just following a misleading impulse

without question. On the contrary, during one period of my life
religion took a firm hold upon me; after I was twelve and

until-until--why, I suppose until now, though I never thought much about
it--just driven along by habit. But do you know," she broke off,

turning her quick eyes upon Madame Ratignolle and leaning forward
a little so as to bring her face quite close to that of her companion,

"sometimes I feel this summer as if I were walking through the green
meadow again; idly, aimlessly, unthinking and unguided."

Madame Ratignolle laid her hand over that of Mrs. Pontellier,
which was near her. Seeing that the hand was not withdrawn, she

clasped it firmly and warmly. She even stroked it a little, fondly,
with the other hand, murmuring in an undertone, "Pauvre cherie."

The action was at first a little confusing to Edna, but she
soon lent herself readily to the Creole's gentle caress. She was

not accustomed to an outward and spoken expression of affection,
either in herself or in others. She and her younger sister, Janet,

had quarreled a good deal through force of unfortunate habit. Her
older sister, Margaret, was matronly and dignified, probably from

having assumed matronly and housewifely responsibilities too early
in life, their mother having died when they were quite young,

Margaret was not effusive; she was practical. Edna had had an
occasional girl friend, but whether accidentally or not, they

seemed to have been all of one type--the self-contained. She never
realized that the reserve of her own character had much, perhaps

everything, to do with this. Her most intimate friend at school
had been one of rather exceptionalintellectual gifts, who wrote

fine-sounding essays, which Edna admired and strove to imitate; and
with her she talked and glowed over the English classics, and

sometimes held religious and political controversies.
Edna often wondered at one propensity which sometimes had

inwardly disturbed her without causing any outward show or
manifestation on her part. At a very early age--perhaps it was

when she traversed the ocean of waving grass--she remembered that
she had been passionately" target="_blank" title="ad.多情地；热烈地">passionately enamored of a dignified and sad-eyed

cavalry officer who visited her father in Kentucky. She could not
leave his presence when he was there, nor remove her eyes from his face,

which was something like Napoleon's, with a lock of black hair failing
across the forehead. But the cavalry officer melted imperceptibly out

of her existence.
At another time her affections were deeply engaged by a young

gentleman who visited a lady on a neighboringplantation. It was
after they went to Mississippi to live. The young man was engaged

to be married to the young lady, and they sometimes called upon
Margaret, driving over of afternoons in a buggy. Edna was a little

miss, just merging into her teens; and the realization that she
herself was nothing, nothing, nothing to the engaged young man was

a bitter affliction to her. But he, too, went the way of dreams.
She was a grown young woman when she was overtaken by what she

supposed to be the climax of her fate. It was when the face and
figure of a great tragedian began to haunt her imagination and stir

her senses. The persistence of the infatuation lent it an aspect
of genuineness. The hopelessness of it colored it with the lofty

tones of a great passion.
The picture of the tragedian stood enframed upon her desk.

Any one may possess the portrait of a tragedian without exciting
suspicion or comment. (This was a sinisterreflection which she

cherished.) In the presence of others she expressed admiration for
his exalted gifts, as she handed the photograph around and dwelt

upon the fidelity of the likeness. When alone she sometimes picked
it up and kissed the cold glass passionately" target="_blank" title="ad.多情地；热烈地">passionately.

Her marriage to Leonce Pontellier was purely an accident, in
this respect resembling many other marriages which masquerade as

the decrees of Fate. It was in the midst of her secret great
passion that she met him. He fell in love, as men are in the habit

of doing, and pressed his suit with an earnestness" target="_blank" title="n.认真，急切；坚定">earnestness and an ardor which
left nothing to be desired. He pleased her; his absolute devotion

flattered her. She fancied there was a sympathy of thought and taste
between them, in which fancy she was mistaken. Add to this the violent

opposition of her father and her sister Margaret to her marriage with
a Catholic, and we need seek no further for the motives which led her

to accept Monsieur Pontellier. for her husband.
The acme of bliss, which would have been a marriage with the

tragedian, was not for her in this world. As the devoted wife of
a man who worshiped her, she felt she would take her place with a

certain dignity in the world of reality, closing the portals
forever behind her upon the realm of romance and dreams.

But it was not long before the tragedian had gone to join the
cavalry officer and the engaged young man and a few others; and

Edna found herself face to face with the realities. She grew fond
of her husband, realizing with some unaccountable satisfaction that

no trace of passion or excessive and fictitious warmth colored her
affection, thereby threatening its dissolution.

She was fond of her children in an uneven, impulsive way. She
would sometimes gather them passionately" target="_blank" title="ad.多情地；热烈地">passionately to her heart; she would

sometimes forget them. The year before they had spent part of the
summer with their grandmother Pontellier in Iberville. Feeling

secure regarding their happiness and welfare, she did not miss them
except with an occasionalintenselonging. Their absence was a

sort of relief, though she did not admit this, even to herself. It