He looked at her, astonished and saddened.

“The word is not pleasant to you, my friend?  Well let us say that it was love.  Truly it was, with all my heart, and because I felt that you loved me.  But love must be a pleasure, and if I do not find in it the satisfaction of what you call my capriciousness, but which is really my desire, my life, my love, I do not want it; I prefer to live alone.  You are astonishing!  My caprices!  Is there anything else in life?  Your foxhunt, isn’t that capricious?”

He replied, very sincerely: 

“If I had not promised, I swear to you, Therese, that I would sacrifice that small pleasure with great joy.”

She felt that he spoke the truth.  She knew how exact he was in filling the most trifling engagements, yet realized that if she insisted he would not go.  But it was too late:  she did not wish to win.  She would seek hereafter only the violent pleasure of losing.  She pretended to take his reason seriously, and said: 

“Ah, you have promised!”

And she affected to yield.

Surprised at first, he congratulated himself at last on having made her listen to reason.  He was grateful to her for not having been stubborn.  He put his arm around her waist and kissed her on the neck and eyelids as a reward.  He said: 

“We may meet three or four times before I go, and more, if you wish.  I will wait for you as often as you wish to come.  Will you meet me here to-morrow?”

She gave herself the satisfaction of saying that she could not come the next day nor any other day.

Softly she mentioned the things that prevented her.

The obstacles seemed light; calls, a gown to be tried on, a charity fair, exhibitions.  As she dilated upon the difficulties they seemed to increase.  The calls could not be postponed; there were three fairs; the exhibitions would soon close.  In fine, it was impossible for her to see him again before his departure.

As he was well accustomed to making excuses of that sort, he failed to observe that it was not natural for Therese to offer them.  Embarrassed by this tissue of social obligations, he did not persist, but remained silent and unhappy.

With her left arm she raised the portiere, placed her right hand on the key of the door; and, standing against the rich background of the sapphire and ruby-colored folds of the Oriental draperies, she turned her head toward the friend she was leaving, and said, a little mockingly, yet with a touch of tragic emotion: 

“Good-by, Robert.  Enjoy yourself.  My calls, my errands, your little visits are nothing.  Life is made up of just such trifles.  Good-by!”

She went out.  He would have liked to accompany her, but he made it a point not to show himself with her in the street, unless she absolutely forced him to do so.