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Effie
,
in
the
interregnum
between
governesses
,
had
been
given
leave
to
dine
downstairs
;
and
Anna
,
on
the
evening
of
Darrow
’
s
return
,
kept
the
little
girl
with
her
till
long
after
the
nurse
had
signalled
from
the
drawing
-
room
door
.
When
at
length
she
had
been
carried
off
,
Anna
proposed
a
game
of
cards
,
and
after
this
diversion
had
drawn
to
its
languid
close
she
said
good
-
night
to
Darrow
and
followed
Madame
de
Chantelle
upstairs
.
But
Madame
de
Chantelle
never
sat
up
late
,
and
the
second
evening
,
with
the
amiably
implied
intention
of
leaving
Anna
and
Darrow
to
themselves
,
she
took
an
earlier
leave
of
them
than
usual
.
Anna
sat
silent
,
listening
to
her
small
stiff
steps
as
they
minced
down
the
hall
and
died
out
in
the
distance
.
Madame
de
Chantelle
had
broken
her
wooden
embroidery
frame
,
and
Darrow
,
having
offered
to
repair
it
,
had
drawn
his
chair
up
to
a
table
that
held
a
lamp
.
Anna
watched
him
as
he
sat
with
bent
head
and
knitted
brows
,
trying
to
fit
together
the
disjoined
pieces
.
The
sight
of
him
,
so
tranquilly
absorbed
in
this
trifling
business
,
seemed
to
give
to
the
quiet
room
a
perfume
of
intimacy
,
to
fill
it
with
a
sense
of
sweet
familiar
habit
;
and
it
came
over
her
again
that
she
knew
nothing
of
the
inner
thoughts
of
this
man
who
was
sitting
by
her
as
a
husband
might
.
The
lamplight
fell
on
his
white
forehead
,
on
the
healthy
brown
of
his
cheek
,
the
backs
of
his
thin
sunburnt
hands
.
As
she
watched
the
hands
her
sense
of
them
became
as
vivid
as
a
touch
,
and
she
said
to
herself
:
“
That
other
woman
has
sat
and
watched
him
as
I
am
doing
.
She
has
known
him
as
I
have
never
known
him
.
.
.
.
Perhaps
he
is
thinking
of
that
now
.
Or
perhaps
he
has
forgotten
it
all
as
completely
as
I
have
forgotten
everything
that
happened
to
me
before
he
came
.
.
.
”
He
looked
young
,
active
,
stored
with
strength
and
energy
;
not
the
man
for
vain
repinings
or
long
memories
.
She
wondered
what
she
had
to
hold
or
satisfy
him
.
He
loved
her
now
;
she
had
no
doubt
of
that
;
but
how
could
she
hope
to
keep
him
?
They
were
so
nearly
of
an
age
that
already
she
felt
herself
his
senior
.
As
yet
the
difference
was
not
visible
;
outwardly
at
least
they
were
matched
;
but
ill
-
health
or
unhappiness
would
soon
do
away
with
this
equality
.
She
thought
with
a
pang
of
bitterness
:
“
He
won
’
t
grow
any
older
because
he
doesn
’
t
feel
things
;
and
because
he
doesn
’
t
,
I
shall
.
.
.
”
And
when
she
ceased
to
please
him
,
what
then
?
Had
he
the
tradition
of
faith
to
the
spoken
vow
,
or
the
deeper
piety
of
the
unspoken
dedication
?
What
was
his
theory
,
what
his
inner
conviction
in
such
matters
?
But
what
did
she
care
for
his
convictions
or
his
theories
?
No
doubt
he
loved
her
now
,
and
believed
he
would
always
go
on
loving
her
,
and
was
persuaded
that
,
if
he
ceased
to
,
his
loyalty
would
be
proof
against
the
change
.
What
she
wanted
to
know
was
not
what
he
thought
about
it
in
advance
,
but
what
would
impel
or
restrain
him
at
the
crucial
hour
.
She
put
no
faith
in
her
own
arts
:
she
was
too
sure
of
having
none
!
And
if
some
beneficent
enchanter
had
bestowed
them
on
her
,
she
knew
now
that
she
would
have
rejected
the
gift
.
She
could
hardly
conceive
of
wanting
the
kind
of
love
that
was
a
state
one
could
be
cozened
into
.
.
.
Darrow
,
putting
away
the
frame
,
walked
across
the
room
and
sat
down
beside
her
;
and
she
felt
he
had
something
special
to
say
.
“
They
’
re
sure
to
send
for
me
in
a
day
or
two
now
,
”
he
began
.
She
made
no
answer
,
and
he
continued
:
“
You
’
ll
tell
me
before
I
go
what
day
I
’
m
to
come
back
and
get
you
?
”
It
was
the
first
time
since
his
return
to
Givre
that
he
had
made
any
direct
allusion
to
the
date
of
their
marriage
;
and
instead
of
answering
him
she
broke
out
:
“
There
’
s
something
I
’
ve
been
wanting
you
to
know
.
The
other
day
in
Paris
I
saw
Miss
Viner
.
”
