Hélène was there, at a table, watching the door for his coming. A pretty flush warmed her pale cheeks as she saw him enter and scan the place for sign of her. She beckoned him to the empty chair beside her--and he went. The handsome young Englishman, virile, frank, gentle in his strength, fascinated her. His attitude towards her interested her, a little piqued her, flattered her, baffled her. All the shafts of her country’s wit against the amourousless habits of his people tickled her to the smiling point; yet she suspected that behind the self-confident eyes strong passions lurked.... She herself thrilled at his touch, would have flung herself upon him, clung to him--would gladly have yielded body or soul to him--yet she saw that he was in no mood for her surrender. She was burnt, fevered, with the eagerness of reckless passion. Yet his frank liking for her, his friendliness, his charming desire to hear always her criticism of life and of art and of things, his pretty homage and deference to her intellectual point of view, won her to him in a pleasant comradeship that gave new life to her. She had heard of these friendships with men--but Paris had never before offered her such sweets. She would watch him with curious eyes that were lit with a smile when he turned to look upon her. So it came that Noll drifted away from the boisterous community of the students and their nightly riot, and took to haunting the tavern of _The Golden Sun_--drifted from his blithe companions in all their irresponsible rollicking gaiety of youth and fell into the drab habits of these shiftless folk who put artistry and the beautiful before life. By day he slept; and when he did not sleep he pored over this Schopenhauer’s scheme of evading all thought of the misery of living in the contemplation of the Beautiful--at night he lived it. Time passed. The first freshness wore off. Youth became restless. The contemplation of the beautiful, in works of art, was no deliverance from the striving of the desire to live. Even in enjoying the beauty of craftsmanship the struggle for life and the cruel facts of life could only be put out of one’s thoughts but for a very little while; nay, art even pointed to life; nay, more, this very art is in its essence the emotional statement of nature and of life!... Fool! Life that was beautiful to contemplate in its parts could not be wholly ugly in the living. Youth rubbed awakening eyes. Art as a refuge from life was a failure. He looked round at these faded wits about him. This devotion to beauty of craftsmanship, to mere letters, to paint, to music, to technical achievement--it could only bring passing consolation of delight. It did not, it could not bring perfect rest--absolute contentment. Sordid hours had still to be lived--and, God! what sordid hours!