Christine that day wore a large cloak of grey material which enveloped her from head to foot.  Her little velvet hat was dark, and the fog outside had pearled her black lace veil.  But he thought her looking very cheerful, with the first slight shiver of winter upon her.  She at once began to make excuses for having so long delayed her return.  She smiled at him in her pretty candid manner, confessed that she had hesitated, and that she had almost made up her mind to come no more.  Yes, she had her own opinions about things, which she felt sure he understood.  As it happened, he did not understand at all—­he had no wish to understand, seeing that she was there.  It was quite sufficient that she was not vexed with him, that she would consent to look in now and then like a chum.  There were no explanations; they kept their respective torments and the struggles of recent times to themselves.  For nearly an hour they chatted together right pleasantly, with nothing hidden nor antagonistic remaining between them; it was as if an understanding had been arrived at, unknown to themselves, and while they were far apart.  She did not even appear to notice the sketches and studies on the walls.  For a moment she looked fixedly at the large picture, at the figure of the woman lying on the grass under the blazing golden sun.  No, it was not like herself, that girl had neither her face nor her body.  How silly to have fancied that such a horrid mess of colour was herself!  And her friendship for the young fellow was heightened by a touch of pity; he could not even convey a likeness.  When she went off, it was she who on the threshold cordially held out her hand.

‘You know, I shall come back again—­’

‘Yes, in two months’ time.’

‘No, next week.  You’ll see, next Thursday.’

On the Thursday she punctually returned, and after that she did not miss a week.  At first she had no particular day for calling, simply taking advantage of her opportunities; but subsequently she selected Monday, the day allowed her by Madame Vanzade in order that she might have a walk in the fresh, open air of the Bois de Boulogne.  She had to be back home by eleven, and she walked the whole way very quickly, coming in all aglow from the run, for it was a long stretch from Passy to the Quai de Bourbon.  During four winter months, from October to February, she came in this fashion, now in drenching rain, now among the mists from the Seine, now in the pale sunlight that threw a little warmth over the quays.  Indeed, after the first month, she at times arrived unexpectedly, taking advantage of some errand in town to look in, and then she could only stay for a couple of minutes; they had barely had time enough to say ‘How do you do?’ when she was already scampering down the stairs again, exclaiming ‘Good-bye.’