Madame Gérard spent twenty-four bitter, sleepless hours considering Rose. At the end of that time--having come to the decision that she did not want to hurt her, but that she wished to do the thing that would hurt her--she made the further decision that, after all, it need not hurt Rose so very much. When she thought of her own unhappiness, a little distress on the part of other wives did not seem out of place. She would do her best to shield Rose from the truth, but she wouldn’t do anything to prevent the truth taking place. These two decisions placed her in a better position than Léon. Léon had decided nothing. He only knew that he must see this complex woman, that he must, out of chivalry, discover what she felt about the incredible behavior of her husband. He must find out also--in honor or common kindness--if there wasn’t in the situation some successful part for a good friend to play. He drew upon all his virtues for his reasons. Yesterday Madame had sharply wounded his _amour propre_; he saw that she had been playing a game with him. Well, the game had failed, and yet he was still there; there was therefore still the possibility of a new game under new conditions, with the advantage, perhaps, to him. He went no further than that. He wanted, he assured himself, to go no further. He was full of consideration for Rose, but he distinctly wished to see how far he could go. At five o’clock he found himself admitted. Madame was already out in the sheltered wistaria-covered balcony. She lay in a long chair draped in a soft white robe; there were pearls round her neck and a little black velvet band. She looked extraordinarily pathetic and young and very tired of grief. There were no traces of tears on her little white face--but she was not the woman to allow traces of any kind to appear, unless they were becoming. “It was kind of you to come,” she said gently after a long pause. “Forgive me, I had misjudged you. I thought that you were playing with me.” Léon protested eagerly, how could she have had such an idea? One did not go about playing with young and innocent women who were unhappy. She must not do him so much injustice. He talked for five minutes nobly and eloquently about unhappy young married women. Madame Gérard listened, looking between the wistaria branches towards the sea. When he had quite finished she said gently, “And yet it was a plot between you and my husband--your friendship, your attention to me--they were not very real, Monsieur. You had agreed with him to win me over to his wishes. Is that not so?” Léon was upset. You can never be sure what a husband will not tell a wife, even an estranged and angry husband. There is a terrible habit of indiscriminate confidence in marriage. Léon had come across it before.