She’s certainly well dressed, as if she wanted to make an impression. But her attention to her wardrobe hides her by making her resemble other women. Here, then, is the purpose of the suede gloves. There can’t be any other reason for them. The tragedy of such an honest soul isn’t even sublime; it’s simply the tedium of living with mean-spirited people and of being constantly duped by them. Among them, coquetry has no appeal, unless you’re soulless. And that voice of hers expresses all the subtle shadings of a heart deeply stirred by passion.

Not long after, he saw a large inn by the wayside. It was down at the bottom of the valley, where the road rejoined the Thames. He said to himself: The courtyard looks empty. We’ll be alone, the two of us, in the dining room. I’ll have to look at her. Maybe I’ll even be forced to talk to her; in any case, I’ll have to put on a brave front. I won’t enter the inn. I’ll ask the postilion if there’s any way I can buy some food at the back door of the kitchen, and then I’ll go and eat in the hay shed. I’ll say that I don’t feel well unless I’m out in the open air.

However, once the coach had come to a halt in the courtyard, he thought: I have to see her. He waited to find out which side of the coupé she was going to get down from. From his seat on the top deck, he climbed down on the opposite side. He looked through the coach windows. He saw her. She was turning away from him and heading toward the door of the inn. The innkeeper was coming up to meet her. She must know him. She was giving him a friendly wave with her gloved hand. She was very elegant. Even in her ravishing dress, she had an extraordinary naturalness about her. Because she walked with a kind of boldness in every step, you wanted to be beside her to protect her, so that she might go on walking that way without running any risk.

She wasn’t very tall; quite slender in her loose-fitting dress; and what gave onlookers an inexplicable jolt of pleasure was that in spite of the volume of her skirts, which were so supple and fitted her perfectly around the hips, you could sense her whole bodily presence inside. It should have been possible to see her hair or, at the very least, the shape of her head, but it was all hidden under a big, wide-brimmed silk hat. She casually took the arm of the innkeeper, who’d come forward to meet her. Leaning lightly on him, she went into the inn, crossing over the threshold with a quick, birdlike hop.

While the postilion was unhitching, Herman came up and asked if there was any way he could buy something to eat outdoors. It turned out to be very easy, because the postilion asked him if he was on his way back from the sea. Saying yes, Herman launched into telling him—in the blink of an eye, and almost without realizing it—a little tale, which must have been a pretty good one, since the other man stood there with his mouth hanging open, harness buckles in hand. At the same time, Herman was thinking: What on earth is this story all about? Why have I launched into spinning him a yarn, as if I wanted to make him my friend for life?