Looking at him with the eyes of her friends Miriam saw the Russian, standing free, beyond Europe, from the stigma of “foreigner.” Many people would think, as she had in the beginning, that he was an intellectual Frenchman, different to the usual “Frenchman”; a big-minded cosmopolitan at any rate; a proud possession. The mysterious fact of Jewishness could remain in the background ...... the hidden flaw ... as there was always a hidden flaw in all her possessions. To her, and to her adventure, its first step now so far away, an accepted misery powerless to arrest the swift rush of the transforming moments, it need make no difference. “Perhaps it shall be better I should go away.” Where? Into the world of people, who would seem to him not different to herself, see his marvellous surrendered charm, catch him, without knowing who or what he was. Who else could know “Mr. Shatov”? “Do you want to go away?” “I do not. But it must be with you to decide.” “I don’t see why you should go _away_.” “Then I shall stay. And we shall see.” The summer lay ahead, unaltered; the threat of change gone from their intercourse. To-morrow they would take up life again with a stability; years at their disposal. The need for the moment was to have him out of sight, kill the past hour and return to the idea of him, already keeping her standing, with relaxed power of attention to his little actual pitiful obstructive form, in an independent glow, an easy wealth of assurance towards life whose thronging images, mysteries of cities and crowds, single fixed groups of known places and inexorable people were alight and welcoming with the sense of him. She bade him a gentle good-night and reached her room, unpursued by thought, getting to bed in a trance of suspension, her own life left behind, façades of life set all about her, claiming in vain for troubled attention, and sank at once into a deep sleep. Putting on her outdoor things next morning, left in the drawing-room while she snatched her breakfast, she was immensely embarrassed to find him standing silently near. The woman facing her in the mirror as she put on her hat was the lonely Miriam Henderson, unendurably asked to behave in the special way. For he was standing eloquently silent and the hands arranging her hat trembled reassuringly. But what was she to do? How turn and face him and get back through the room and away to examine alone the surprises of being in love? Her image was disconcerting, her clothes and the act of rushing off to tiresomely engrossing work inappropriate. It was paralysing to be _seen_ by him struggling with a tie. The vivid colour that rushed to her cheeks turned her from the betraying mirror to the worse betrayal of his gaze. But it was enough for the moment, which she faced out, downcast, yet joyful in giving what belonged to his grave eyes. “We cannot be as boy and girl” he said gently, “but we may be very happy.”