"Do you not see that I am quite ill this evening?" She was so pale, and had such a ring of weariness about her eyes, that Alfred was moved by the sight. "It is the last of my headache," she continued, touching her temple; "a good night's rest, and it will disappear. So, till to-morrow." She smiled, made a graceful gesture with her hand, and left the drawing-room. Alfred, when alone, could hear her going and coming in the adjoining apartment, which was her own room. He himself occupied a room on the floor above, opening into his study. "How delicate her health is," he thought tenderly to himself. "No; never, never!" said Helen, speaking aloud to herself, when her maid had left her; and, leaping out of bed, she turned the key in both doors. Alfred, who was still in the drawing-room, seated before the fire, heard the sound of the key turning in the lock. "She is afraid of me, then?" he asked himself with singular sadness; and meanwhile Helen, stretched in bed, was repeating half aloud: "Never, never again will I give myself to that man." The reality of the situation had just been impressed upon her with frightful clearness. She could foresee the daily strife, the dispute for her person night by night and hour by hour. If high life, as it is called, with its nightly engagements, its facilities for isolation in an immense house, and its social pleasures and duties, enables a husband and wife, not on good terms with each other, to live both side by side and yet apart, it is not so with those of the comfortable middle class. Conjugal interviews in private are there the rule, social engagements the exception, and husband and wife meet every moment, and in every detail of existence. "Heavens, what can I do?" said Helen to herself. Then courageously: "I will find means. It will be so sweet to struggle for him." Her soul became exalted by the impress of this thought, and suddenly she could again taste Armand's kisses upon her lips. All the circumstances of their interview showed themselves, from the anguish of arrival to that of departure. Ah, what a farewell! What a caress was that given on the threshold of the door before entering again upon life! Then, what a walk through the streets with its brutal tumult of passengers, vehicles, trains! Armand had remained alone in the little home. What had been his thoughts in presence of the bed which, with strange modesty, she had wished to remake herself? "I am going to be grateful to my step-mother for making me wait on myself when I was small," she said, with her tender gracefulness.