lovers, Graham listened with a growing anxiety and astonishment, so terribly did the human truth of helpless passion flame through the chill, retrospective style. How could she read this scene, he asked himself; how could he listen? Was it not their love, their embrace that she read of? Steadily, slowly, her voice went on, but with a betraying bitterness as though the words touched her lips with gall and wormwood, and Graham, as he heard that bitterness, felt that a hot flush mounted to his forehead. A small, snake-like smile curled the corner of Madame de Lamouderie's lips as she watched them both.
The burning scene was over. Madeleine had escaped. The hero, following the fashion of his day, managed to faint: 'Je tombai roide sur le carreau.' It almost took one back to Saint-Preux and Julie. 'Never mind. He knows what he's about, Fromentin,' thought Graham, and he took breath and looked hard at his canvas, and there came to him, as an after-taste, the visionary quality of the book; passion looked back on from a far distance; danger remembered in security; youth seen from middle age; and no depiction of present anguish could have had that savour of tears; tears never again to be shed; never to be forgotten.
'How is Madame Graham?' asked Madame de Lamouderie with a harsh suddenness.
'She is quite well again, thank you. Haven't you seen her?' Graham found a bright, hard voice.
'No, I have not seen her. You have been more fortunate than I, perhaps, Marthe?'
