Vendale turned to the corner by the window, in which Marguerite had placed herself with her work.  There, as if she had dropped from the ceiling, or come up through the floor—­there, in the old attitude, with her face to the stove—­sat an Obstacle that had not been foreseen, in the person of Madame Dor!  She half got up, half looked over her broad shoulder at Vendale, and plumped down again.  Was she at work?  Yes.  Cleaning Obenreizer’s gloves, as before?  No; darning Obenreizer’s stockings.

The case was now desperate.  Two serious considerations presented themselves to Vendale.  Was it possible to put Madame Dor into the stove?  The stove wouldn’t hold her.  Was it possible to treat Madame Dor, not as a living woman, but as an article of furniture?  Could the mind be brought to contemplate this respectable matron purely in the light of a chest of drawers, with a black gauze held-dress accidentally left on the top of it?  Yes, the mind could be brought to do that.  With a comparatively trifling effort, Vendale’s mind did it.  As he took his place on the old-fashioned window-seat, close by Marguerite and her embroidery, a slight movement appeared in the chest of drawers, but no remark issued from it.  Let it be remembered that solid furniture is not easy to move, and that it has this advantage in consequence—­there is no fear of upsetting it.

Unusually silent and unusually constrained—­with the bright colour fast fading from her face, with a feverish energy possessing her fingers—­the pretty Marguerite bent over her embroidery, and worked as if her life depended on it.  Hardly less agitated himself, Vendale felt the importance of leading her very gently to the avowal which he was eager to make—­to the other sweeter avowal still, which he was longing to hear.  A woman’s love is never to be taken by storm; it yields insensibly to a system of gradual approach.  It ventures by the roundabout way, and listens to the low voice.  Vendale led her memory back to their past meetings when they were travelling together in Switzerland.  They revived the impressions, they recalled the events, of the happy bygone time.  Little by little, Marguerite’s constraint vanished.  She smiled, she was interested, she looked at Vendale, she grew idle with her needle, she made false stitches in her work.  Their voices sank lower and lower; their faces bent nearer and nearer to each other as they spoke.  And Madame Dor?  Madame Dor behaved like an angel.  She never looked round; she never said a word; she went on with Obenreizer’s stockings.  Pulling each stocking up tight over her left arm, and holding that arm aloft from time to time, to catch the light on her work, there were moments—­delicate and indescribable moments—­when Madame Dor appeared to be sitting upside down, and contemplating one of her own respectable legs, elevated in the air.  As the minutes wore on, these elevations followed each other at longer and longer intervals.  Now