“There is no need.  I know the nature of my malady; it is called ennui.  You are not at all the doctor who could do anything for me.”

Noel rose with a discouraged air, and took his place at the side of the tea-table, facing her.  His resignation bespoke how habituated he had become to these rebuffs.  Juliette snubbed him; but he returned always, like the poor dog who lies in wait all day for the time when his caresses will not be inopportune.  “You have told me very often during the last few months, that I bother you.  What have I done?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Well, then, why—?”

“My life is nothing more than a continual yawn,” answered the young woman; “is it my fault?  Do you think it very amusing to be your mistress?  Look at yourself.  Does there exist another being as sad, as dull as you, more uneasy, more suspicious, devoured by a greater jealousy!”

“Your reception of me, my dear Juliette,” ventured Noel “is enough to extinguish gaiety and freeze all effusion.  Then one always fears when one loves!”

“Really!  Then one should seek a woman to suit oneself, or have her made to order; shut her up in the cellar, and have her brought upstairs once a day, at the end of dinner, during dessert, or with the champagne just by way of amusement.”

“I should have done better not to have come,” murmured the advocate.

“Of course.  I am to remain alone here, without anything to occupy me except a cigarette and a stupid book, that I go to sleep over?  Do you call this an existence, never to budge out of the house even?”

“It is the life of all the respectable women that I know,” replied the advocate drily.

“Then I cannot compliment them on their enjoyment.  Happily, though, I am not a respectable woman, and I can tell you I am tired of living more closely shut up than the wife of a Turk, with your face for sole amusement.”

“You live shut up, you?”

“Certainly!” continued Juliette, with increased bitterness.  “Come, have you ever brought one of your friends here?  No, you hide me.  When have you offered me your arm for a walk?  Never, your dignity would be sullied, if you were seen in my company.  I have a carriage.  Have you entered it half a dozen times?  Perhaps; but then you let down the blinds!  I go out alone.  I walk about alone!”

“Always the same refrain,” interrupted Noel, anger getting the better of him, “always these uncalled for complaints.  As though you had still to learn the reason why this state of things exists.”

“I know well enough,” pursued the young woman, “that you are ashamed of me.  Yet I know many bigger swells then you, who do not mind being seen with their mistresses.  My lord trembles for his fine name of Gerdy that I might sully, while the sons of the most noble families are not afraid of showing themselves in public places in the company of the stupidest of kept women.”