He was talking about something, with his legs stretched out a little, sometimes looking at her, sometimes not looking at her. "You know, the Bernards have not accepted." He glanced at her, then looked down at the carpet and gave a disappointed cluck with his tongue, absorbed in this matter that interested him, while she kept going and coming, showing the lovely curves of her body. She /was/ lovely. But her husband went on droning his commonplaces, phrases that meant nothing to her, that were strange to her, and that seemed blasphemous in the room which held her beauty. She put her garments on, one by one. Her husband continued in his bestial indifference, and dropped back into his reflections. She went to the mirror over the mantelpiece with toilet articles spread out before her. Probably the mirror in the washroom was too small. While keeping on with her toilet, she spoke as if to herself in a gay, animated, chatty way, because it was still the springtime of the day. She gave herself careful attention and took much time to groom herself. But this was an important matter, and the time was not lost. Besides, she was really hurrying. Now she went to a wardrobe and took out a light dress of delicate texture, which she held out in her arms carefully. She started to put the dress on, then an idea suddenly occurred to her and she stopped. "No, no, no, decidedly not," she said. She put the dress back and looked for another one, a dark skirt and a blouse. She took a hat, fluffed the ribbon a bit, then held the trimming of roses close to her face in front of the mirror. Then she began to sing, evidently satisfied. . . . . . He did not look at her, and when he did look at her, he did not see her. It was a solemn spectacle, a drama, but a drama dismal and depressing. That man was not happy, and yet I envied him his happiness. How explain this except by the fact that happiness is within us, within each of us, and is the desire for what we do not possess? These two were together, but in reality far apart. They had left each other without leaving each other. A sort of intrigue about nothing held them together. They would never come nearer again, for between them lay the impassable barrier of love over and done with. This silence and this mutual ignorance are the cruelest things in the world. To cease to love is worse than to hate, for say what you will, death is worse than suffering. I am sorry for the men and women who go through life together in the chains of indifference. I am sorry for the poor heart that has what it has for so short a time. I am sorry for the men who have the heart not to love any more. And for a moment, seeing this simple harrowing scene, I underwent a little of the enormous suffering of those innumerable people who suffer all. . . . . .