“What does she mean?” he exclaimed, returning to the room, putting the furniture back in place and smoothing the disordered carpet.  “Heavens, I wish I could as easily restore order to my brain.  Let me think, if I can.  What is she after?  Because, of course, she has something in view.  She does not want our relation to culminate in the act itself.  Does she really fear disillusion, as she claims?  Is she really thinking how grotesque the amorous somersaults are?  Or is she, as I believe, a melancholy and terrible player-around-the-edges, thinking only of herself?  Well, her obscene selfishness is one of those complicated sins that have to be shriven by the very highest confessor.  She’s a plain teaser!

“I don’t know.  Incubacy enters into this.  She admits—­so placidly!—­that in dream she cohabits at will with dead or living beings.  Is she Satanizing, and is this some of the work of Canon Docre?  He’s a friend of hers.

“So many riddles impossible to solve.  What is the meaning of this unexpected invitation for tomorrow night?  Does she wish to yield nowhere except in her own home?  Does she feel more at ease there, or does she think the propinquity of her husband will render the sin more piquant?  Does she loathe Chantelouve, and is this a meditated vengeance, or does she count on the fear of danger to spur our senses?

“After all, I think it is probably a final coquetry, an appetizer before the repast.  And women are so funny anyway!  She probably thinks these delays and subterfuges are necessary to differentiate her from a cocotte.  Or perhaps there is a physical necessity for stalling me off another day.”

He sought other reasons but could find none.

“Deep down in my heart,” he said, vexed in spite of himself by this rebuff, “I know I have been an imbecile.  I ought to have acted the cave man and paid no attention to her supplications and lies.  I ought to have taken violent possession of her lips and breast.  Then it would be finished, whereas now I must begin at the beginning again, and God damn her!  I have other things to do.

“Who knows whether she isn’t laughing at me this very moment?  Perhaps she wanted me to be more violent and bold—­but no, her soul-sick voice was not feigned, her poor eyes did not simulate bewilderment, and then what would she have meant by that respectful kiss—­for there was an impalpable shade of respect and gratitude in that kiss which she planted on my hand!”

She was too much for him.  “Meanwhile, in this hurly-burly I have forgotten my refreshments.  Suppose I take off my shoes, now that I am alone, for my feet are swollen from parading up and down the room.  Suppose I do better yet and go to bed, for I am incapable of working or reading,” and he drew back the covers.

“Decidedly, nothing happens the way one foresees it, yet my plan of attack wasn’t badly thought out,” he said, crawling in.  With a sigh he blew out the lamp, and the cat, reassured, passed over him, lighter than a breath, and curled up without a sound.