goodness so far as to see me twice; she considered impartially all I had come to say. And it was in the course of these two talks that I changed my mind, that I came to see things differently.”
“May I ask what led to this change?”
“Simply seeing the change in her ,” M. Rivière replied.
“The change in her? Then you knew her before?”
The young man’s colour again rose. “I used to see her in her husband’s house. I have known Count Olenski for many years. You can imagine that he would not have sent a stranger on such a mission.”
Archer’s gaze, wandering away to the blank walls of the office, rested on a hanging calendar surmounted by the rugged features of the President of the United States. That such a conversation should be going on anywhere within the millions of square miles subject to his rule seemed as strange as anything that the imagination could invent.
“The change—what sort of a change?”
“Ah, Monsieur, if I could tell you!” M. Rivière paused. “ Tenez —the discovery, I suppose, of what I’d never thought of before: that she’s an American. And that if you’re an American of her kind—of your kind—things that are accepted in certain other societies, or at least put up with as part of a general convenient give-and-take—become unthinkable, simply unthinkable. If Madame Olenska’s relations understood what these things were, their opposition to her returning would no doubt be as unconditional as her own; but they seem to regard her husband’s wish to have her back as proof of an irresistible longing for domestic life.” M. Rivière paused, and then added: “Whereas it’s far from being as simple as that.”
Archer looked back to the President of the United States, and then down at his desk and at the papers scattered on it. For a second or two he could