"I can't somehow make up my mind. I like the idea at the back of it. I think they're groping in the dark for a sign not yet vouchsafed to us." McTaggart tried to follow her thought, failed and asked for a nearer clue. Fantine's eyes were far away, the fine brows drawn together in an effort of concentration. She pushed her plate away from her and, with hands clasped on the table, leaned unconsciously toward him. "Have you ever read Swedenborg? His 'Heaven and Hell!' No? What a pity! Well one of his favourite theories is on what he calls 'Correspondences.' He thinks that everything lovely here is the symbol, materialized, of a higher, more exquisite spiritual force--known to angels in Paradise. For instance, a rose--with its perfect shape, its colour, its scent, has a counterpart--a _'Correspondence_' is his word--with a '_state_'--it's difficult to explain---a ... sense of happiness above. Well, it seems to me that artists now, in music and painting--in all the arts--are trying to get away from _form_ to express the _meaning_ in their work. It's a wireless message to the mind away beyond the animal senses; something above the mere glamour of appeal to the flesh--it's 'correspondence.'" McTaggart nodded his head gravely. "It sounds bigger than I imagined." He felt a half-ashamed surprise at these depths in a woman he deemed light. And, as if in answer to his thought, the old mocking look returned to the painted lips that smiled at him. But scorn was in her half-veiled eyes. For Fantine knew the ways of men: the forfeit that her class must pay--to be used and loved and set aside as a thing of nought when custom staled. She felt a keen stab of revolt, a fierce desire to extort to the full her share of the bargain, blow for blow, to prey on the weaknesses she served. And McTaggart's next careless remark sealed his fate as far as it lay in the hands of the shrewd adventuress, turning the scales against the man. "I didn't know you read so much. How on earth do you find the time?" The speech, innocently meant, stung the wound in her heart. But she gave him a daring glance. "Mon cher--I _am_ alone ... sometimes!" "You wouldn't be if I had my way." He checked himself as the waiter poured the fragrant coffee into their cups.