Mrs. Pontellier's eyes were quick and bright; they were a yellowish

brown, about the color of her hair. She had a way of turning them

swiftly upon an object and holding them there as if lost in some inward

maze of contemplation or thought.

Her eyebrows were a shade darker than her hair. They were thick and

almost horizontal, emphasizing the depth of her eyes. She was rather

handsome than beautiful. Her face was captivating by reason of a certain

frankness of expression and a contradictory subtle play of features. Her

manner was engaging.

Robert rolled a cigarette. He smoked cigarettes because he could

not afford cigars, he said. He had a cigar in his pocket which Mr.

Pontellier had presented him with, and he was saving it for his

after-dinner smoke.

This seemed quite proper and natural on his part. In coloring he was

not unlike his companion. A clean-shaved face made the resemblance more

pronounced than it would otherwise have been. There rested no shadow of

care upon his open countenance. His eyes gathered in and reflected the

light and languor of the summer day.

Mrs. Pontellier reached over for a palm-leaf fan that lay on the porch

and began to fan herself, while Robert sent between his lips light puffs

from his cigarette. They chatted incessantly: about the things around

them; their amusing adventure out in the water--it had again assumed its

entertaining aspect; about the wind, the trees, the people who had gone

to the Cheniere; about the children playing croquet under the oaks, and

the Farival twins, who were now performing the overture to "The Poet and

the Peasant."

Robert talked a good deal about himself. He was very young, and did not

know any better. Mrs. Pontellier talked a little about herself for the

same reason. Each was interested in what the other said. Robert spoke of

his intention to go to Mexico in the autumn, where fortune awaited him.

He was always intending to go to Mexico, but some way never got there.

Meanwhile he held on to his modest position in a mercantile house in

New Orleans, where an equal familiarity with English, French and Spanish

gave him no small value as a clerk and correspondent.

He was spending his summer vacation, as he always did, with his mother

at Grand Isle. In former times, before Robert could remember, "the

house" had been a summer luxury of the Lebruns. Now, flanked by its

dozen or more cottages, which were always filled with exclusive visitors

from the "Quartier Francais," it enabled Madame Lebrun to maintain the

easy and comfortable existence which appeared to be her birthright.




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