She next day she said to herself that she would reply to Robert.  It was raining.  She listened languidly to the drops falling on the terrace.  Vivian Bell, careful and refined, had placed on the table artistic stationery, sheets imitating the vellum of missals, others of pale violet powdered with silver dust; celluloid pens, white and light, which one had to manage like brushes; an iris ink which, on a page, spread a mist of azure and gold.  Therese did not like such delicacy.  It seemed to her not appropriate for letters which she wished to make simple and modest.  When she saw that the name of “friend,” given to Robert on the first line, placed on the silvery paper, tinted itself like mother-of-pearl, a half smile came to her lips.  The first phrases were hard to write.  She hurried the rest, said a great deal of Vivian Bell and of Prince Albertinelli, a little of Choulette, and that she had seen Dechartre at Florence.  She praised some pictures of the museums, but without discrimination, and only to fill the pages.  She knew that Robert had no appreciation of painting; that he admired nothing except a little cuirassier by Detaille, bought at Goupil’s.

She saw again in her mind this cuirassier, which he had shown to her one day, with pride, in his bedroom, near the mirror, under family portraits.  All this, at a distance, seemed to her petty and tiresome.  She finished her letter with words of friendship, the sweetness of which was not feigned.  Truly, she had never felt more peaceful and gentle toward her lover.  In four pages she had said little and explained less.  She announced only that she should stay a month in Florence, the air of which did her good.  Then she wrote to her father, to her husband, and to Princess Seniavine.  She went down the stairway with the letters in her hand.  In the hall she threw three of them on the silver tray destined to receive papers for the post-office.  Mistrusting Madame Marmet, she slipped into her pocket the letter to Le Menil, counting on chance to throw it into a post-box.

Almost at the same time Dechartre came to accompany the three friends in a walk through the city.  As he was waiting he saw the letters on the tray.

Without believing that characters could be divined through penmanship, he was susceptible to the form of letters as to elegance of drawing.  The writing of Therese charmed him, and he liked its openness, the bold and simple turn of its lines.  He looked at the addresses without reading them, with an artist’s admiration.

They visited, that morning, Santa Maria Novella, where the Countess Martin had already gone with Madame Marmet.  But Miss Bell had reproached them for not observing the beautiful Ginevra of Benci on a fresco of the choir.  “You must visit that figure of the morning in a morning light,” said Vivian.  While the poetess and Therese were talking together, Dechartre listened patiently to Madame Marmet’s conversation, filled with anecdotes, wherein academicians dined with elegant women, and shared the anxiety of that lady, much preoccupied for several days by the necessity to buy a tulle veil.  She could find none to her taste in the shops of Florence.