It was not only at Mme. de Saunois’ first reception that Raymonde failed of sufficiently enthusiastic formulæ for amateur singers and elocutionists. Even on occasions when she was genuinely stirred, the exaggerated congratulations of those about her arrested her enthusiasm. Her lips would half open to express a compliment, but if she deemed it insufficient she would blush and remain silent after all. I believe it was a physical impossibility for her to conceal her thoughts. People complained of her disdain, her coldness, but never of her candour. And I was distressed by this silence that other people took for hostility. “You do not talk. One must talk,” I told her. “I do not dare,” she answered. “Say anything, no matter what.” “It is just that kind of thing I dare not say.” Indeed she could neither speak nor understand those little nothings which pretty lips can utter with so much assurance. I made some pretence of teaching hey how to converse: I led her to those places where one selects subjects of conversation like cakes at the baker’s--such as art exhibitions and first nights. She felt out of her element in the company of those painted, enamelled women, versed in all the arts and graces of Parisian life, who, though they may please separately, in an assemblage strike one with a sort of solemn horror, with their perfume of withered flowers. I brought her into the midst of this and tolerated the insult of this impure air. Stiff, and a little stilted, slender and distant, she retired within herself like a sensitive plant. Those others, large and many-decked ships, fast-sailing torpedo-boats, old hulks from the waters of the theatre or of gallantry, all artifice and rouge, backed by their husbands or protectors, had the air of setting victoriously out to sea to capture public opinion. Vaguely they would announce success or failure. And I was disposed to accept their judgment as to Raymonde, never questioning if it were not as false as their faces. The day after a new play, Paris would learn from such as these whether or not the presentation deserved success: they made or unmade reputations. When we attended the theatre, Raymonde would sit motionless in the corner of the box. Occasionally she fell back--recoiling as if from some insupportable contact--though she herself was all the time unconscious of her instinctive movements. “What is the matter?” I asked once. “Nothing.” “You do not look as if you were enjoying yourself.” “To be truthful with you, I am not.” “This play displeases you?” “Oh, how could it please me?” “But there is nothing but enthusiasm in the lobby between the acts. Every one is delighted with it,” I argued. “I do not share every one’s opinion. You must excuse me.”