The mystery of John RiviÈre intrigued Elaine. There was certainly a mysterious something about this man which she had not fathomed. His most open confidences held deep reserves. If he had not avowed himself a scientist, she would have classed him as a man of business. In those brief comments on Stock Exchange speculation, he had spoken in a tone of easy authority which goes only with intimate knowledge. He was no recluse, but a man of the world—a man who had clearly moved amongst men and women and held his place with ease.

The idea that he was a boor had been entirely shelved. But why that brusque, boorish disappearance from Arles?

Elaine, thinking matters over in the solitude of her room on the evening of the second encounter, was beginning to regret her resolve to humble John RiviÈre. It began to appear petty and unworthy. She had no doubt now that she could bring him to her feet if she wished, by skilful acting. Or even—in her thoughts she whispered it to herself—or even without acting a part.

But that thought she thrust aside. She had her work to do in the world—the work that she loved. It called imperiously for all her energies. She was free, she was independent, her daily bread was of her own buying; and she wished circumstances to remain as they were.

Elaine decided to give up her petty resolve. She would avoid meeting him intentionally, and if they met, she would bring the plane of conversation down again to the superficiality of mere tourist acquaintanceship—"meet to-day and part to-morrow."

For his part, RiviÈre had found keen enjoyment in this frank camaraderie. They met as equals on the mental plane. Both were profoundly interested in their respective life-work. They held ideas in common on a score of impersonal topics. He told himself that he had behaved very boorishly in his abrupt departure from Arles. It had been unnecessary, as Chance had now pointed out to him by this second accidental encounter. This acquaintanceship was the merest passing of "ships that pass in the night"—in a day or two she would be away and back to Paris, and in all human probability they would never meet again.

It was generous of her to have greeted him as though she had not noticed the abruptness of his departure from Arles. It was generous of her to have clipped out the newspaper advertisement and to have called his attention to it. He mentally apologized to her for his curt behaviour.

The next morning, RiviÈre did not find Elaine at the Jardin de la Fontaine. He wanted to meet her. He wanted to let her know indirectly what he was feeling. And so, almost unconsciously, he found himself walking away from the Jardin towards the centre of the town, towards the ruined arena and the Roman temple known as the Maison CarrÉe. Most probably she would be sketching at one or other of them.

He found her at the Maison CarrÉe—a square Roman temple on which Time has laid no rougher hand than on a white-haired mother still rosy of cheek and young of heart. Elaine was sketching it in her book with the bold lines of the scene-painter, ignoring detail and working only for the high-lights and deep shadows. Round her, peeking over her shoulders and chattering shrilly, were a group of children. In the background lounged a young ProvenÇal peasant with a nose twisted out of shape.

"Shall I lure the children away?" asked RiviÈre as he raised his soft felt hat.

"Thanks—it would be a relief," answered Elaine, but with a coldness in her greeting that struck him as curious.

A few coppers scattered the children; the peasant slunk sullenly away. His eye and RiviÈre's met, but there was no recognition on the part of the latter.

"Are you working this morning?" asked Elaine presently.

"No, I'm learning." He nodded towards her sketch-book. "May I continue the lesson?"

"Compliments are barred," she replied stiffly. "I neither give nor take them."

RiviÈre groped mentally for the reason of this curious change of attitude. Yesterday she had been frankly friendly; to-day she held herself distinctly aloof. Had he offended her in some way?

He continued soberly. "I'm not paying insincere compliments. It isn't your sketch which interests me so much as your method of sketching. The directness of it. The way you get to the heart of the subject without worrying over detail. The incisiveness. I'm mentally applying your method to the problems of my own work.... To stand here and watch you sketching is pure selfishness on my part."

"Like other men, you imagine that women can't get beyond detail." A flush had come into her voice. "All through the ages men have been learning from women and refusing to acknowledge it."

"In which sphere?"

"In every sphere."

"Particularize."

"Take novel-writing. Men sneer at the woman-novelist—say that she cannot draw a man to the life."

"It's largely true."

"What's the reason? Because one can't draw to any satisfaction without models to base on. Because a man never lets a woman into his innermost thoughts."

"That argument ought to cut both ways."

"It doesn't. Women give up their innermost secrets to men because——Well, because woman is the sex that gives and man the sex that takes. It's been bred in and in through the whole history of civilization."

"Woman the sex that gives? That reverses the usual idea."

"You're thinking of the things that don't matter—money, jewels, dress, mansions, servants. Those are the cheap things that man gives in return for the gifts that are priceless."

RiviÈre shook his head. "You argue only from a limited knowledge of the world. There are plenty of women who take everything—everything—and give nothing in return. Perhaps you don't know such women. I do."

"You mean women of the underworld? They are as men make them."

"No, I'm thinking of femmes du monde. There are plenty of virtuous married women who are as grasping as the most soulless underworlder. Probably you don't see them. You look at the world in a magic crystal that mirrors back your own thoughts and your own personality in different guises. You see a thousand YOU's, dressed up as other people."

Elaine had become very thoughtful. "My magic crystal—yes." she mused. "But surely everyone has his or her crystal to look into."

"Some can keep crystal-vision and reality apart. That's 'balance' ... And there lies the failure of the feminists—in 'balance.' They make up a bundle of all the iniquities of human nature, and try to dump it on man's side of the fence."

"I love argument, but art is long and my stay at NÎmes very brief. To-morrow I must move on to Orange."

"Then I'll not disturb you further. I expect you have a good deal to get through."

"Yes. This afternoon it's the Pont du Gard; this evening the Druids' Tower."

"This evening! The place is very lonely at night-time."

"I know. But I must sketch it in moonlight. That's essential."

"Remember Arles," warned RiviÈre. "You ought not to be alone."

She nodded. "I know. But I have my work to do."

RiviÈre felt uneasy over the matter. He did not wish to urge an undesired escort upon her, but he did not like to think of her working alone by the solitude of the Druids' Tower at night-time.

"If I can be of any service to you while you are here at NÎmes," he said, "you have only to send a note to the Villa ClÉmentine."

With that he said good-bye and left her. It seemed evident that he had offended her in some way. Possibly, he thought, it was by asking her to write that letter to Olive. Though she had agreed willingly enough at the time, it was possible that afterwards she had regretted it. It had offended against her sense of right. RiviÈre felt distressed.

Then the remembrance came to him that this was the merest tourist acquaintanceship. To-morrow she would be leaving NÎmes, and the episode would pass out of her thoughts. Probably they would never meet again. It was not worth further thought on either side.

Resolutely he banished all thoughts of Elaine from his mind, and concentrated on his own work-problems.

From the corner of a lane near the Maison CarrÉe, Crau, the young ProvenÇal, had been watching them keenly as they talked together.