“You must go to Seville,” she said—­she spoke a little broken English.  “The most beautiful women in the world.”

She leered and nodded her head.  Her triple chin, her large belly, shook with inward laughter.

It grew so hot that it was almost impossible to sleep at night.  The heat seemed to linger under the trees as though it were a material thing.  They did not wish to leave the starlit night, and the three of them would sit on the terrace of Ruth Chalice’s room, silent, hour after hour, too tired to talk any more, but in voluptuous enjoyment of the stillness.  They listened to the murmur of the river.  The church clock struck one and two and sometimes three before they could drag themselves to bed.  Suddenly Philip became aware that Ruth Chalice and Lawson were lovers.  He divined it in the way the girl looked at the young painter, and in his air of possession; and as Philip sat with them he felt a kind of effluence surrounding them, as though the air were heavy with something strange.  The revelation was a shock.  He had looked upon Miss Chalice as a very good fellow and he liked to talk to her, but it had never seemed to him possible to enter into a closer relationship.  One Sunday they had all gone with a tea-basket into the forest, and when they came to a glade which was suitably sylvan, Miss Chalice, because it was idyllic, insisted on taking off her shoes and stockings.  It would have been very charming only her feet were rather large and she had on both a large corn on the third toe.  Philip felt it made her proceeding a little ridiculous.  But now he looked upon her quite differently; there was something softly feminine in her large eyes and her olive skin; he felt himself a fool not to have seen that she was attractive.  He thought he detected in her a touch of contempt for him, because he had not had the sense to see that she was there, in his way, and in Lawson a suspicion of superiority.  He was envious of Lawson, and he was jealous, not of the individual concerned, but of his love.  He wished that he was standing in his shoes and feeling with his heart.  He was troubled, and the fear seized him that love would pass him by.  He wanted a passion to seize him, he wanted to be swept off his feet and borne powerless in a mighty rush he cared not whither.  Miss Chalice and Lawson seemed to him now somehow different, and the constant companionship with them made him restless.  He was dissatisfied with himself.  Life was not giving him what he wanted, and he had an uneasy feeling that he was losing his time.

The stout Frenchwoman soon guessed what the relations were between the couple, and talked of the matter to Philip with the utmost frankness.

“And you,” she said, with the tolerant smile of one who had fattened on the lust of her fellows, “have you got a petite amie?”

“No,” said Philip, blushing.

“And why not?  C’est de votre age.”