She shrugged her shoulders and stood up. She wished to think no more about it. . . . With long strides she went from room to room, seeking distraction. Then she realized that she was retracting her sister's promenade through the apartment. She could think only of her. Of her and that other . . . Jealous, decidedly? No! No! No! No! . . . She stamped her foot angrily. She would not admit it! . . . But, whether she admitted it or not, the pain was gnawing at her heart. She sought moral explanations; and she found them. It was her purity that suffered. In her complex nature, rich in contradictory instincts that had not yet had occasion to conflict, there was no lack of puritanical forces. Yet it was not religious scruples that disturbed her. Brought up by a sceptical father and a free-thinking mother, outside the pale of any church, she was accustomed to discuss everything. She was not afraid to submit any social prejudice to the spirit of examination. She admitted free love; in theory she admitted it readily. Often in conversation with her father or with fellow students she had upheld it, and in this the juvenile desire to appear "advanced" had played an unimportant part; she sincerely thought that freedom in love was legitimate, natural, and even right. She had never thought of blaming the pretty girls of Paris who lived as they pleased; she regarded them sympathetically, certainly with more sympathy than the women of her middle-class world. . . . Well then, what was it that hurt her now? Sylvie was exercising her right. . . . Her right? No, not her right! Others, but not she! One is lenient with those one does not hold so high. For her sister as for herself Annette had, justly or not--yes, justly!--very strict standards. Love for one person only seemed to her an aristocracy of the heart. Sylvie had fallen. Annette blamed her for it! "One love only? Love for you! . . . Jealous girl, you are lying to yourself! . . ." But the more jealous she was of Sylvie, the more she loved her; and the more irritated she became with her, the more she loved her. One can be so greatly irritated only by those one loves! Her little sisters charm was calmly working. It was useless to be annoyed, to wish that she were different. Little by little, Annette became conscious of another feeling: curiosity. Despite herself, her mind was trying to imagine Sylvie's mode of life. She thought about it entirely too much. She ended by putting herself in Sylvie's place; and she was rather confused to admit that she did not find it too bad. The scorn of herself, the indignant revolt that this produced, made her the more severe towards Sylvie. She continued to sulk, and forbade herself to visit her sister again.