That evening at Mme. Passerat's dinner, Elizabeth, usually so poised and calm, evidenced nervousness; and he did not doubt that she had at once begun the reading of her husband's diary. During dessert he leaned toward her and questioned her in a low voice. Mme. de Vimelle, seated at the other end of the table, made use of this to give vent to a spiteful reflection. "Have you read it?" he asked. "What? ... No, no, not yet. I have not thought of it." He thought she was feigning astonishment, and seeing her so good an actress, he retracted that impertinent patronage which he had accorded her so-called simplicity. But he was wrong. She had carefully arranged Albert's note-books and was only awaiting the opportunity to take them out of the bureau. The past was the past. It could not be changed. Being a woman of order and logical mind, she liked definite situations. This reversion to the past did not attract her. With what had she to reproach herself? Nothing, according to the world's opinion, absolutely nothing. Then of what could anyone accuse her, who had been so abominably deceived, and for a woman older and less attractive than she? Another cause had contributed to her confusion. She had been the first arrival at Mme. Passerat's, in order to escape from the temptations of her own awakened curiosity. The salon on the ground floor was not yet lighted. In crossing the lawn in front of the villa, walking carefully because of the dew, she overheard some words of a conversation, the terms and familiarity of which were significant, and saw, or rather guessed, from the open window, hardly distinguishable in the shadow, that a couple whose voices she recognized were sitting there. Without thinking, she hastily ran across the small space which separated her from the Mélèzes, and reached her room to hide the shame she felt in discovering a liaison which her filial devotion would never have permitted her to suspect. When her mother came to look for her, and scolded her for being so late, she understood that she must gain control of herself and keep the secret. If only the poor woman with her might always remain in ignorance. When the two women entered, Mme. Passerat received them in that exaggerated manner which has become fashionable, held both hands of her good friend, Mme. Molay-Norrois, and embraced that dear Elizabeth who unresponsively suffered her kiss, but was upset by it all evening. Thus she appeared excited and uneasy to the observant Philippe Lagier. Two days later, not having seen her in the interim, he inquired again. "And our book of grievances?" This was the name he had given to the private diary of his friend. She still requested more time, and for some days he did not meet her. Indeed she went out seldom. She had proposed to take her parents to Saint Martin to finish the season there; but her father laughed at the offer and her mother never disagreed with him.