When we had seated ourselves, she took out her mirror and commenced tidying her hair and brushing the dust from her brows. There was nothing to be had, the waiter informed us, but pot au feu; déjeuner was over. So I ordered pot au feu, red wine and an omelet. As she replaced her mirror in her muff, she looked up brilliantly. “You know, I _am_ pretty.” She was being watched. The dull eyes of the absinthe-drinkers had become alert. Tradesmen had come out of their shops and stared at her across the square. Some of the bolder strolled into the café and seated themselves close to her. They were paying the unabashed homage that a Frenchman always pays to feminine beauty. I lowered my voice to a whisper; my throat was parched with dust. “This can’t go on.” She laughed with her eyes. “It can go on as long as there’s any petrol left, and as long as you don’t try to kiss me when I’m speeding.” “That’s not what I meant; you know it.” “What then? The same old thing--marriage?” I ignored her flippancy. “You’ll be turning back directly, and when you get to Paris, you won’t be like you are now. You’ll be _La Fiesole_ and to-night you’ll be dancing with them all watching. I can’t bear it.” “I shan’t.” I leant eagerly forward, but she drew away from me. “You’re not going back? You’ve given up the theatre?” She held me in suspense, letting her eyes wander as though she had not heard. Slowly she turned, with that lazy, taunting smile of hers. “Damn the theatre,” she said quietly; “I’m going on with you to the end.” “And the end’s marriage?” “Who can tell? Now don’t be a rotter. You’re spoiling everything. Let’s talk of something else.” When we climbed into the car, “You drive,” she said. “But to where?” “That’s my secret. Straight on. I’ll tell you when to turn.” We were hardly out of the valley before her eyes had closed and her head was nodding against my shoulder. I drove gently, fearing to disturb her. From time to time I looked down at the white slant of her throat, the shadows beneath her lashes, and the almost childish droop of her mouth. How the self she kept hidden revealed itself! Her face was that of a Madonna, for whom the cross was yet remote and the happiness near at hand--and both were certain. What different versions she gave me of herself! Once a sickening fear shook me like a leaf. I slowed the car to a halt, and listened for her breath. In that moment I suffered all the agony of loss that must some time accompany the actuality. One day, sooner or later, I told myself, this thing I had dreaded would occur. How much time was left to us to find life beautiful between then and now?