Polly, too, was thinking of Vincent. With that pitiful stupidity of women, who can never quite believe themselves without attraction, she had seated herself at the piano and begun to play. She knew he loved music; she hoped to interest him with a curious new piece. She wasn’t in love with him any longer. She didn’t even wish him, exactly, to love her; but she was passionately anxious to secure his attention. She had that hunger which all really fine women have--the hunger for being appreciated, recognized. She deluded herself with the idea that after an episode with some worthless little hussy, he couldn’t help but contrast such a creature with Polly, and be filled with remorse and respect. As a matter of fact, he felt nothing in the world but irritation. He did contrast Polly with the girl whom he had left the day before, but it was to the disadvantage of his wife. He saw her to be sallow, weary, faded. She had, he thought, only one good point--she didn’t nag; didn’t even ask where he’d been. He came and listened to her music. She saw him sitting close to her, with a look of pleasure on his face, and she put all her art, all her skill, into her playing; but when she glanced up from a difficult passage, he had gone. She went on playing, but it was mournful, dispirited music; the improvisings of a forlorn heart. Mrs. Russell alone never gave a thought to Vincent. She had gone to bed very early, as she liked to do, and lay reading a French detective story. Her eyes were bright with interest; she was delighted. V Angelica had not turned on the light. She sat by the open window of her room, near which a big lime-tree was rustling in the dark. The grass, the bushes, the clouds, were all moving, and she fancied that moths and bats and other little night creatures fluttered by. The breeze was going past her; she felt none of it on her face. She had an impression of being spectator of a mighty procession, forever passing her window in dim, dark shapes. She was excited and exultant; in the dark her lips were smiling. She wasn’t thinking; she was drifting, lost in an endless reverie, upon the strength and beauty of this man. She was like poor Polly, playing uncounted variations on one sole theme. "I never felt this way before!" she reflected, with wonder. "I never thought I _could_!" But then she had never expected to meet a man like this, so entirely the hero of her dreams. With her sad, worldly wisdom, she had expected so little of love or of men. She had expected to be satisfied with some one who would love her; she had never, in her pride, imagined a man whom she could love. This noble and poetic soul was a shock to her, an amazement. Her fancy dwelt upon his splendid figure, his bold face. She smiled again, and then grew suddenly uneasy. "No!" she said. "I don’t like it. I wish I didn’t. Him being married, and all!"