Though he manfully concealed what he felt, the passion that had been sown in his heart had grown apace and in a few days had assumed dominating proportions.  He suspected everything and everybody while determined to appear indifferent.  Even Corona’s efforts to please him, which of late had grown so apparent, caused him suspicion.  He asked himself why her manner should have changed, as it undoubtedly had during the last few days.  She had always been a good and loving wife to him, and he was well pleased with her gravity and her dignified way of showing her affection.  Why should she suddenly think it needful to become so very solicitous for his welfare and happiness during every moment of his life?  It was not like her to come into his study early in the morning and to ask what he meant to do during the day.  It was a new thing that she should constantly propose to walk with him, to drive with him, to read aloud to him, to make herself not only a part of his heart but a part of his occupations.  Had the change come gradually, he would not have distrusted her motives.  He liked his wife’s company and conversation, but as they each had things to do which could not conveniently be done together, he had made up his mind to the existence which was good enough for his companions in society.  Other men did not think of spending the afternoon in their wives’ carriages, leaving cards or making visits, or driving round and round the Villa Borghese and the Pincio.  To do so was to be ridiculous in the extreme, and besides, though he liked to be with Corona, he detested visiting, and hated of all things to stop a dozen times in the course of a drive in order to send a footman upstairs with cards.  He preferred to walk or to lounge in the club or to stay at home and study the problems of his improvements for Saracinesca.  Corona’s manner irritated him therefore, and made him think more than ever of the subject which he would have done better to abandon from the first.

Nevertheless, he would not show that he was wearied by his wife’s attention, still less that he believed her behaviour to be prompted by a desire to deceive him.  He was uniformly courteous and gentle, acquiescing in her little plans whenever he could do so, and expressing a suitable degree of regret when he was prevented from joining her by some previous engagement.  But the image of the French Zouave was ever present with him.  He could not get rid of Gouache’s dark, delicate features, even in his dreams; the sound of the man’s pleasant voice and of his fluent conversation was constantly in his ears, and he could not look at Corona without fancying how she would look if Anastase were beside her whispering tender speeches.