We felt that the coming man would misapprehend both it and
her--though he would not hesitate to make a convenience of it. Ugh,
the cynic!
We formed ourselves round her in a ring of fire, hoping to frighten
the beast away. But we were miserably, fiercely, anxious, suspicious,
jealous. We were jealous of everything in the shape of a man that came
into any sort of contact with her: of the men who passed her in the
street or rode with her in the omnibus; of the little _employes de
commerce_ to whom she gave English lessons; of everybody. I fancy we
were always more or less uneasy in our minds when she was out of our
sight. Who could tell what might be happening? With those lips of
hers, those eyes of hers--oh, we knew how she could love: Chalks had
said it. Who could tell what might already have happened? Who could
tell that the coming man had not already come? She was entirely
capable of concealing him from us. Sometimes, in the evening, she
would seem absent, preoccupied. How could we be sure that she wasn't
thinking of him? Savouring anew the hours she had passed with him that
very day? Or dreaming of those she had promised him for to-morrow? If
she took leave of us--might he not be waiting to join her round the
corner? If she spent an evening away from us....
And she--she only laughed; laughed at our jealousy, our fears, our
precautions, as she laughed at our hankering flame.
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