Cecile passed through the long hall, which was almost a gallery: footmen stood on either side of the hangings; a hum of voices came from behind. The train of her dress rustled against the leaves of a palm; and the sound gave a sudden jar to the strung cords of her sensitiveness. She was a little nervous; her eyelids quivered slightly and her mouth had a very earnest fold.

She walked in; there was much light, but soft light, the light of candles only. Two officers stepped aside for her as she stood hesitating. Her eyes glanced round in search of Mrs. Hoze; she saw her standing among two or three of her guests, with her grey hair, her kindly and yet haughty face, rosy and smooth, almost without a wrinkle.

Mrs. Hoze came towards her:

“I can’t tell you how charming I think it of you not to have played me false!” she said, pressing Cecile’s hand with effusive and hospitable urbanity.

She introduced people to Cecile here and there; Cecile heard names the sound of which at once escaped her.

“General, allow me ... Mrs. van Even,” Mrs. Hoze whispered and left her, to speak to some one else.

Cecile drew a deep breath, pressed her hand to the edge of her bodice, as though to arrange something that had slipped from its place, answered the general cursorily. She was very pale; and her eyelids quivered more and more. She ventured to throw a glance round the room.

She stood next to the general, forcing herself to listen, so as not to give answers that would sound strikingly foolish. She was very tall, slender, and straight, with her shoulders, white as sunlit marble, blossoming out of a sombre vase of black: fine, black, trailing tulle, sprinkled all over with small jet spangles; glittering black on dull transparent black. A girdle with tassels of jet, hanging low, was wound about her waist. So she stood, blonde: blonde and black; a little sombre amid the warmth and light of other toilettes; and, for unique relief, two diamonds in her ears, like dewdrops.

Her thin suÊde-covered fingers trembled as she manipulated her fan, a black tulle transparency, on which the same jet spangles glittered with black lustre. Her breath came short behind the strokes of the diaphanous fan as she talked with the general, a spare, bald, distinguished-looking man, not in uniform, but wearing his decorations.

Mrs. Hoze’s guests walked about, greeting one another here and there, with a continuous hum of voices. Cecile saw Taco Quaerts come up to her; he bowed before her; she bowed coldly in return, not offering him her hand. He lingered by her for a moment, spoke a word or two and then passed on, greeting other acquaintances.

Mrs. Hoze had taken the arm of an old gentleman; a procession formed slowly. The servants threw back the doors; a table glittered beyond, half-visible. The general offered Cecile his arm, as she stood looking behind her with a listless turn of her neck. She closed her eyelids for a second, to prevent their quivering. Her brows contracted with a sense of disappointment; but smilingly she laid the tips of her fingers on the general’s arm and with her closed fan smoothed away a crease from the tulle of her train.

When Cecile was seated she found Quaerts sitting on her right. Then her disappointment vanished, the disappointment which she had felt at not being taken in to dinner by him; but her look remained cold, as usual. And yet she had what she wished; the expectation with which she had come to this dinner was fulfilled. Mrs. Hoze had seen Cecile at the Van Attemas’ and had gladly undertaken to restore the young widow to society. Cecile knew that Quaerts was a frequent visitor at Mrs. Hoze’s; she had heard from AmÉlie that he was invited to the dinner; and she had accepted. That Mrs. Hoze, remembering that Cecile had met Quaerts before, had placed him next to her was easy to understand.

Cecile was very inquisitive about herself. How would she feel? At least interested: she could not disguise that from herself. She was certainly interested in him, remembering what Jules had said, what AmÉlie had said. She already felt that behind the mere sportsman there lurked another, whom she longed to know. Why should she? What concern was it of hers? She could not tell; but, in any case, as a matter of curiosity, as a puzzle, it awoke her interest. And, at the same time, she remained on her guard, for she did not think that his visit to her was strictly in order; and there were stories in which the name of that married woman was coupled with his.

She succeeded in freeing herself from her conversation with the general, who seemed to feel called upon to entertain her, and it was she who spoke first to Quaerts:

“Have you begun to give Jules his riding-lessons?” she asked, with a smile.

He looked at her, evidently a little surprised at her voice and her smile, which were both new to him. He returned a bare answer:

“Yes, mevrouw, we were at the riding-school yesterday....”

She at once thought him clumsy, to let the conversation drop like that; but he enquired with that slight shyness which became a charm in him who was so manly:

“So you are going out again, mevrouw?”

She thought—she had indeed thought so before—that his questions were sometimes questions which people do not ask. This was one of the strange things about him.

“Yes,” she replied, simply, not knowing what else to say.

“Forgive me,” he said, seeing that his words had embarrassed her a little. “I asked, because ...”

“Because?” she echoed, with wide-open eyes.

He took courage and explained:

“When Dolf spoke of you, he used always to say that you lived so quietly.... And I could never picture you to myself returning to society, mixing with many people; I had formed an idea of you; and it now seems that this idea was a mistaken one.”

“An idea?” she asked. “What idea?”

“Perhaps you will be angry when I tell you. Perhaps, even as it is, you are none too well pleased with me!” he replied, jestingly.

“I have not the slightest reason to be either pleased or displeased with you,” she jested in return. “But tell me, what was your idea?”

“Then you are interested in it?”

“If you will answer candidly, yes. But you must be candid!” and she threatened him with her finger.

“Well,” he began, “I thought of you as a very cultured woman, as a very interesting woman—I still think all that—and ... as a woman who cared nothing for the world beyond her own sphere; and this ... this I can no longer think. And I feel almost inclined to say, at the risk of your looking on me as very strange, that I am sorry no longer to be able to think of you in that way. I would almost rather not have met you here....”

He laughed, to soften what might sound strange in his words. She looked at him, her eyelashes flickering with amazement, her lips half-opened; and suddenly it struck her that she was looking into his eyes for the first time. She looked into his eyes and saw that they were a dark, very dark grey around the black depth of the pupil. There was something in his eyes, she could not say what, but something magnetic, as though she could never again take away her own from them.

“How strange you can be sometimes!” she said mechanically: the words came intuitively.

“Oh, please don’t be angry!” he almost implored her. “I was so glad when you spoke kindly to me. You were a little distant to me when I saw you last; and I should be so sorry if I put you out. Perhaps I am strange, but how could I possibly be commonplace with you? How could I possibly, even if you were to take offence?... Have you taken offence?”

“I ought to, but I suppose I must forgive you, if only for your candour!” she said, laughing. “Otherwise your remarks were anything but gallant.”

“And yet I did not mean it ungallantly.”

“Oh, no doubt!” she jested.

She remembered that she was at a big dinner-party. The guests ranged before and around her; the footmen waiting behind; the light of the candles gleaming on the silver and touching the glass with all the hues of the rainbow; on the table prone mirrors, like sheets of water surrounded by flowers, little lakes amidst moss-roses and lilies of the valley. She sat silent a moment, still smiling, looking at her hand, a pretty hand, like a white precious thing upon the tulle of her gown: one of the fingers bore several rings, scintillating sparks of blue and white.

The general turned to her again; they exchanged a few words; the general was delighted that Mrs. van Even’s right-hand neighbour was keeping her entertained and enabling him to get on quietly with his dinner. Quaerts turned to the lady on his right.

Both of them were glad when they were able to resume their conversation:

“What were we talking about just now?” she asked.

“I know!” he replied, mischievously.

“The general interrupted us.”

“You were not angry with me!” he jested.

“Oh, of course,” she replied, laughing softly, “it was about your idea of me, was it not? Why could you no longer picture me returning to society?”

“I thought that you had become a person apart.”

“But why?”

“From what Dolf said, from what I myself thought, when I saw you.”

“And why are you now sorry that I am not ‘a person apart,’ as you call it?” she asked, still laughing.

“From vanity; because I made a mistake. And yet perhaps I have not made a mistake....”

They looked at each other; and both of them, although each thought it in a different way, now thought the same thing, namely, that they must be careful with their words, because they were speaking of something very delicate and tender, something as frail as a soap-bubble, which could easily break if they spoke of it too loudly; the mere breath of their words might be sufficient. Yet she ventured to ask:

“And why ... do you believe ... that perhaps ... you are not mistaken?”

“I don’t quite know. Perhaps because I wish it so. Perhaps, too, because it is so true as to leave no room for doubt. Oh, yes, I am almost sure that I judged rightly! Do you know why? Because otherwise I should have hidden myself and been commonplace; and I find this impossible with you. I have given you more of myself in this short moment than I have given people whom I have known for years in the course of all those years. Therefore surely you must be a person apart.”

“What do you mean by ‘a person apart’?”

He smiled, he opened his eyes; she looked into them again, deeply.

“You understand, surely!” he said.

Fear for the delicate thing that might break came between them again. They understood each other as with a freemasonry of feeling. Her eyes were magnetically held upon his.

“You are very strange!” she again said, automatically.

“No,” he said, calmly, shaking his head, with his eyes in hers. “I am certain that I am not strange to you, even though you may think so for the moment.”

She was silent.

“I am so glad to be able to talk to you like this!” he whispered. “It makes me very happy. And see, no one knows anything of it. We are at a big dinner; the people next to us can even catch our words; and yet there is not one among them who understands us or grasps the subject of our conversation. Do you know the reason?”

“No,” she murmured.

“I will tell you; at least, I think it is like this. Perhaps you know better, for you must know things better than I, you are so much subtler. I personally believe that each person has a circle about him, an atmosphere, and that he meets other people who have circles or atmospheres about them, sympathetic or antipathetic to his own.”

“This is pure mysticism!” she said.

“No,” he replied, “it is quite simple. When the two circles are antipathetic, each repels the other; but, when they are sympathetic, they glide and overlap in smaller or larger curves of sympathy. In some cases the circles almost coincide, but they always remain separate.... Do you really think this so very mystical?”

“One might call it the mysticism of sentiment. But ... I have thought something of the sort myself....”

“Yes, yes, I can understand that,” he continued, calmly, as if he expected it. “I believe that those around us would not be able to understand us, because we two alone have sympathetic circles. But my atmosphere is of a much grosser texture than yours, which is very delicate.”

She was silent again, remembering her former aversion to him: did she still feel it?

“What do you think of my theory?” he asked.

She looked up; her white fingers trembled in the tulle of her gown. She made a poor effort to smile:

“I think you go too far!” she stammered.

“You think I rush into hyperbole?”

She would have liked to say yes, but could not:

“No,” she said; “not that.”

“Do I bore you?...”

She looked at him, looked deep into his eyes. She shook her head, by way of saying no. She would have liked to say that he was too unconventional just now; but she could not find the words. A faintness oppressed her whole being. The table, the people, the whole dinner-party appeared to her as through a haze of light. When she recovered herself again, she perceived that a pretty woman opposite had been staring at her and was now looking away, out of politeness. She did not know how or why this interested her, but she asked Quaerts:

“Who is the lady over there, in pale blue, with the dark hair?”

She saw that he started.

“That is young Mrs. Hijdrecht!” he said, calmly, a little distantly.

She too was perturbed; she turned pale; her fan flapped nervously to and fro in her fingers.

He had named the woman whom rumour said to be his mistress.

It seemed to Cecile as though that delicate, frail thing, that soap-bubble, had burst. She wondered if he had spoken to that dark-haired woman also of circles of sympathy. So soon as she was able, Cecile observed Mrs. Hijdrecht. She had a warm, dull-gold complexion, dark, glowing eyes, a mouth as of fresh blood. Her dress was cut very low; her throat and the slope of her breast showed insolently handsome, brutally luscious. A row of diamonds encompassed her neck with a narrow line of white flame.

Cecile felt ill at ease. She felt as if she were playing with fire. She looked away from the young woman and turned to Quaerts, in obedience to some magnetic force. She saw a cloud of melancholy stealing over the upper half of his face, over his forehead and his eyes, which betrayed a slight look of age. And she heard him say:

“Now what do you care about that lady’s name? We were just in the middle of such a charming conversation....”

She too felt sad now, sad because of the soap-bubble that had burst. She did not know why, but she felt pity for him, a sudden, deep, intense pity.

“We can resume our conversation,” she said, softly.

“Ah no, don’t let us take it up where we left it!” he rejoined, with feigned airiness. “I was becoming tedious.”

He spoke of other things. She answered little; and their conversation languished. They each occupied themselves with their neighbours. The dinner came to an end. Mrs. Hoze rose, took the arm of the gentleman beside her. The general escorted Cecile to the drawing-room, in the slow procession of the others.

The ladies remained alone; the men went to the smoking-room with young Hoze. Cecile saw Mrs. Hoze come towards her. She asked her if she had not been bored at dinner; they sat down together, in a confidential tÊte-À-tÊte.

Cecile made the necessary effort to reply to Mrs. Hoze; but she would have liked to go somewhere and weep quietly, because everything passed so quickly, because the speck of the present was so small. Gone was the sweet charm of their conversation during dinner about sympathy, a fragile intimacy amid the worldly show about them. Gone was that moment, never, never to return: life sped over it with its constant flow, as with a torrent of all-obliterating water. Oh, the sorrow of it, to think how quickly, like an intangible perfume, everything speeds away, everything that is dear to us!...

Mrs. Hoze left her; Suzette van Attema came to talk to Cecile. She was dressed in pink; and she glittered in all her aspect as if gold-dust had poured all over her, upon her movements, her eyes, her words. She spoke volubly to Cecile, telling interminable tales, to which Cecile did not always listen. Suddenly, through Suzette’s prattle, Cecile heard the voices of two women whispering behind her; she only caught a word here and there:

“Emilie Hijdrecht, you know....”

“Only gossip, I think; Mrs. Hoze does not seem to heed it....”

“Ah, but I know it as a fact!”

The voices were lost in the hum of the others. Cecile just caught a sound like Quaerts’ name. Then Suzette asked, suddenly:

“Do you know young Mrs. Hijdrecht, Auntie?”

“No.”

“Over there, with the diamonds. You know, they talk about her and Quaerts. Mamma doesn’t believe it. At any rate, he’s a great flirt. You sat next to him, didn’t you?”

Cecile suffered severely in her innermost sensitiveness. She shrank into herself entirely, doing all that she could to appear different from what she was. Suzette saw nothing of her discomfiture.

The men returned. Cecile looked to see whether Quaerts would speak to Mrs. Hijdrecht. But he wholly ignored her presence and even, when he saw Suzette sitting with Cecile, came over to them to pay a compliment to Suzette, to whom he had not yet spoken.

It was a relief to Cecile when she was able to go. She was yearning to be alone, to recover herself, to return from her abstraction. In her brougham she scarcely dared breathe, fearful of something, she could not say what. When she reached home she felt a stifling heaviness which seemed to paralyse her; and she dragged herself languidly up the stairs to her dressing-room.

And yet, on the stairs, there fell over her, as from the roof of her house, a haze of protecting safety. Slowly she went up, her hand, holding a long glove, pressing the velvet banister of the stairway. She felt as if she were about to swoon:

“But, Heaven help me ... I am fond of him, I love him, I love him!” she whispered between her trembling lips, in sudden amazement.

It was as in a rhythm of astonishment that she wearily mounted the stairs, higher and higher, in a silent surprise of sudden light.

“But I am fond of him, I love him, I love him!”

It sounded like a melody through her weariness.

She reached her dressing-room, where Greta had lighted the gas; she dragged herself inside. The door of the nursery stood half open; she went in, threw back the curtain of Christie’s little bed, dropped on her knees and looked at the child. The boy partly awoke, still in the warmth of a deep sleep; he crept a little from between the sheets, laughed, threw his arms about Cecile’s bare neck:

“Mummy dear!”

She pressed him tightly in the embrace of her slender, white arms; she kissed his raspberry mouth, his drowsed eyes. And meantime the refrain sang on in her heart, right across the weariness which seemed to break her by the bedside of her child:

“But I am fond of him, I love him, I love him, I love him...!”

The mystery! Suddenly, on the staircase, it had beamed open before her in her soul, like a great flower of light, a mystic rose with glistening petals, into whose golden heart she now looked for the first time. The analysis to which she was so much inclined was no longer possible: this was the riddle of love, the eternal riddle, which had beamed open within her, transfixing with its rays the very width of her soul, in the midst of which it had burst forth like a sun in a universe; it was too late to ask the reason why; it was too late to ponder and dream upon it; it could only be accepted as the inexplicable phenomenon of the soul; it was a creation of sentiment, of which the god who created it would be as impossible to find in the inner essence of his reality as the God who had created the world out of chaos. It was light breaking forth from darkness; it was heaven disclosed above the earth. And it existed: it was reality and not a fairy-tale! For it was wholly and entirely within her, a sudden, incontestable, everlasting truth, a felt fact, so real in its ethereal incorporeity that it seemed to her as if, until that moment, she had never known, never thought, never felt. It was the beginning, the opening out of herself, the dawn of her soul’s life, the joyful miracle, the miraculous inception of love, love focussed in the midst of her soul.

She passed the following days in self-contemplation, wandering through her dreams as through a new country, rich with great light, where distant landscapes paled into a wan radiance, like fantastic meteors in the night, quivering in incandescence on the horizon. It seemed to her as though she, a pious and glad pilgrim, were making her way along paradisaical oases towards those distant scenes, there to find even more, the goal.... Only a little while ago, the prospect before her had been narrow and forlorn—her children gone from her, her loneliness wrapping her about like a night—and now, now she saw stretching in front of her a long road, a wide horizon, glittering with light, nothing but light....

That was, all that was! It was no fine poets’ fancy; it existed, it gleamed in her heart like a sacred jewel, like a mystic rose with stamina of light! A freshness as of dew fell over her, over her whole life: over the life of her senses; over the life of outward appearances; over the life of her soul; over the life of the indwelling truth. The world was new, fresh with young dew, the very Eden of Genesis; and her soul was a soul of newness, born anew in a metempsychosis of greater perfection, of closer approach to the goal, that distant goal, far away yonder, hidden like a god in the sanctuary of its ecstasy of light, as in the radiance of its own being.