noon
She could not -- displeasing reflection -- afford to quarrel with Zélie . The woman knew too much . Therefore Madame de Vallorbes took refuge in lofty abstraction , while the tiresome uncertainties , the conflicting inclinations of the past day , quick to seize their opportunity , as is the habit of such discourteous gentry , -- returned upon her with redoubled importunity and force . She had not seen Richard since parting with him at noon , the enigmatic suggestions of his conversation still unresolved , the alternate resentment at his apparent indifference and attraction of his strong and somewhat mysterious personality still vitally present to her . Later she had driven out to Pozzuoli . But neither stone-throwing urchins , foul and disease-stricken beggars , the pale sulphur plains and subterranean rumblings of the Solfaterra , nor stirring of nether fires therein resident by a lanky , wild-eyed lad -- clothed in leathern jerkin and hairy , goatskin leggings -- with the help of a birch broom and a few local newspapers , served effectually to rouse her from inward debate and questioning . The comfortable , cee-spring carriage might swing and sway over the rough , deep-rutted roads behind the handsome , black , long-tailed horses , the melodramatic-looking coachman might lash stone-throwing urchins and anathematise them , their ancestors and descendants , alike , to the third and fourth generation in the vilest , Neapolitan argot , Charles might resort to physical force in the removal of wailing , alms-demanding , vermin-eaten wrecks of humanity , but still Helen asked herself only -- should she go ?