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And then she began to consider what he had
written.
"La conscience, c'est la quantite de science innee que nous avons en
nous."
She did not know the words. Were they his own or another's? And had he
written them simply because they had chanced to come into his mind at
the moment, or because they expressed some underthought or feeling
that had surged up in him just then? She wished she knew.
It was a fine saying, she thought, but for the moment she was less
interested in it than in Emile's mood, his mind, when he had written
it. She realized now, on this calm of the sea, how absurd had been the
thought that a man so subtle as Emile would flagrantly reveal a
passing phase of his nature, a secret irritability, a jealousy,
perhaps, or a sudden hatred in a sentence written for any eyes that
chose to see. But he might covertly reveal himself to one who
understood him well.
She sat still, trying to match her subtlety against his.
From the shore came sounds of changing music, low down or falling to
them from the illuminated heights where people were making merry in
the night.


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