Fenton's picture of
_Fatima_ was finished, yet Ninitta continued to come to the studio. His
brief passion, which had been more than half mere intellectual
curiosity how far his power over the Italian could go, had ended with
that curiosity. In its place was a gradually increasing hatred for this
woman, who seemed to assert a claim upon him, this model whom he never
had loved, and whom he could now scarcely tolerate, since he had ceased
to respect her. He cursed himself vehemently after the fashion of such
offenders, when eager, vibrating passion has given place to a sense of
irksome obligations, but more vigorously still did he upbraid fate, to
whose score he set down all annoyance.
As for Ninitta, she, perhaps, no more truly loved Fenton than he had
cared for her, but she clung to him as a frightened child might clutch
the arm of one with whom it has wandered into the darkness of some
vault beset with pitfalls. Ninitta's moral sense was of the most
rudimentary character. She was, perhaps, incapable of appreciating an
ethical principle, and her spiritual life never soared beyond the
crudest emotions and the simplest questions of personal feeling. She
had come to live without the guidance of a priest, and this fact, in
itself, had left her without moral support. She had now no particular
consciousness of having done wrong, although she was moved by the fear
of the consequences of the discovery of her transgression.
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