But before he had withdrawn, his eyes had crossed swords with his wife’s. After that there seemed very little to do. She was conscious that the rest of her life lay before her, and that her husband would never forgive her. The prospect once accepted, ceased to stimulate. From time to time she was conscious of Léon, but never as a consideration requiring much effort. She had fulfilled her bargain and nothing more seemed to be asked of her. She felt with relief that rather less was required of her than might have been expected, and she was vaguely grateful to Léon for leaving her so much alone. He was a man of tact and could be trusted to look out her trains for her and see her eventually back to France. She supposed she would have sooner or later to rejoin her parents; but she wished she could forget what she had done to Rose. Now that her purpose was accomplished this fact became more and more troublesome to her. Léon she had no qualms about, for she realized neither his unhappiness nor what she had cost him, but she did realize Rose. It made her a little sharp with Léon when she thought of him at all; but it was quite easy not to think of him. Madame Gérard wanted to ask him if he had succeeded in keeping Rose unaware, but she shrank from speaking of Rose. Neither of them spoke of her, and neither of them thought of anything else. It made the silence heavy between them. “You would like something to eat or drink, perhaps?” Léon at length roused himself to ask her. “No,” she said, “thank you.” He lit a cigarette and smoked it through, then he said, “It is, I believe, considered very beautiful to drive to Posilippo in the sunset--to dine out there and return. Shall I order a carriage?” She turned her head for a brief moment and glanced at him. She wished he would go away now--drive to Posilippo by himself, for instance. “Do as you like,” she said without stirring, “I stay here--” “Then, of course,” he said gravely, “I shall not leave you.” It was like being in prison--and not being quite sure whether you were the prisoner or the jailer. It was a relief to know that some one else was advancing along the terrace. Léon sprang to his feet; he was not a clumsy man, but he very nearly upset the table by which they sat. Rose was walking slowly towards them. She held a Baedeker in one hand and a parasol in the other. She was very tall, and she looked taller than usual. Her wide blue eyes rested on the wonderful sea beyond--but she had seen Léon and Madame Gérard. She walked towards them without speaking or smiling. When she came up to them she smiled a little nervously, but in a very friendly way, as if she was glad to see them both, but didn’t want, of course, to make a fuss about it. “They told me,” she said, “that I should find you out here.” Madame Gérard could not rise. Her lips moved as if she tried to speak, but she dared not speak. This was her judgment. She was the cleverest of women, but she no longer knew what to say.