From jealousy of a selfish or little kind Dinah’s heart had never bled. Earlier in their married life, when Gaston still affected dancing, and as a matter of course went to balls without his wife, it was her usual next morning’s pleasure to scan his programmes, enjoy his sketches of his partners, his repetitions of their small-talk--all without a shade of hurt feeling. Once or twice she hinted that she would fain accompany him as a looker-on. ‘Nobody looks on long in this wicked world,’ was Gaston’s answer. ‘You do not dance, you do not play whist. You have a brain under your yellow locks, and you are too young to talk scandal. Ball-room atmosphere is unwholesome. I would not hear of such a sacrifice.’ And as it was not Dinah’s habit to pose as martyr, she obeyed, trusting in him always. Beautiful, pure of soul herself, she simply honoured the beauty, believed in the purity of soul of other women. Gaston was popular, spoilt; an artist with an artist’s--more than this, with an American temperament. A degree of youthful immaturity seemed ever to lurk amidst his astute knowledge of life and of men. He had but a half-share, as he would tell her, of the fibres derived from long lines of bored ancestors. He sought diversion for diversion’s sake. She had made no quarrel with the inexorable facts of her husband’s existence or of her own. If only she had been his equal, intellectually! If she could have supplied him with the mental companionship he needed, or interested him in his childless fireside! Ah, could she thus have risen to his level, Gaston’s heart had been in her keeping still. Hence came the morbid unrest of her present life; hence the dread, increasing daily, hourly, strive with it as she might, of Linda’s influence. ‘I am afraid one gets used to most things, Mrs. Thorne. I have seen Gaston run away with so often that I am not much moved by the thought of these pretty French girls.’ Linda Thorne rose. She rested her hand confidentially within Dinah’s arm, much to Dinah’s chagrin, and proposed that they should walk together along the sands to look for Mr. Arbuthnot. ‘Yes, I must positively tell you the whole story. Your husband had finished his sketch of the lovely fisher-girl. The young person was not at all lovely, in fact. But she was striking. She had distinct genre. Artists care for genre, you know, much more than for beauty.’ Dinah resolved to question Gaston as to the truth of this. She resolved to cultivate distinct genre in herself for the remainder of her days.