“At last they have unmasked their batteries!” he had exclaimed with painful gaiety two days after Christmas, when the besiegers had recommenced their cannonade.  He tried to imitate the strange, general joy of the city, which had been roused from apathy by the recurrence of a familiar noise; but the effort was a deplorable failure.  And Sophia condemned not merely the failure of Chirac’s imitation, but the thing imitated.  “Childish!” she thought.  Yet, despise the feebleness of Chirac’s behaviour as she might, she was deeply impressed, genuinely astonished, by the gravity and persistence of the symptoms.  “He must have been getting himself into a state about me for a long time,” she thought.  “Surely he could not have gone mad like this all in a day or two!  But I never noticed anything.  No; honestly I never noticed anything!” And just as her behaviour in the restaurant had shaken Chirac’s confidence in his knowledge of the other sex, so now the singular behaviour of Chirac shook hers.  She was taken aback.  She was frightened, though she pretended not to be frightened.

She had lived over and over again the scene in the restaurant.  She asked herself over and over again if really she had not beforehand expected him to make love to her in the restaurant.  She could not decide exactly when she had begun to expect a declaration; but probably a long time before the meal was finished.  She had foreseen it, and might have stopped it.  But she had not chosen to stop it.  Curiosity concerning not merely him, but also herself, had tempted her tacitly to encourage him.  She asked herself over and over again why she had repulsed him.  It struck her as curious that she had repulsed him.  Was it because she was a married woman?  Was it because she had moral scruples?  Was it at bottom because she did not care for him?  Was it because she could not care for anybody?  Was it because his fervid manner of love-making offended her English phlegm?  And did she feel pleased or displeased by his forbearance in not renewing the assault?  She could not answer.  She did not know.

But all the time she knew that she wanted love.  Only, she conceived a different kind of love:  placid, regular, somewhat stern, somewhat above the plane of whims, moods, caresses, and all mere fleshly contacts.  Not that she considered that she despised these things (though she did)!  What she wanted was a love that was too proud, too independent, to exhibit frankly either its joy or its pain.  She hated a display of sentiment.  And even in the most intimate abandonments she would have made reserves, and would have expected reserves, trusting to a lover’s powers of divination, and to her own!  The foundation of her character was a haughty moral independence, and this quality was what she most admired in others.