She bowed; but at the moment another lady—elderly, rather stout, and, to speak it plainly, of homely and unattractive aspect—whom I had not hitherto perceived, called from a table at the other end of the room where she was sitting:
“We ought to start early to-morrow.”
The younger lady turned her head slowly toward the speaker.
“My dear mother,” said she, “I never start early. Besides, this town is interesting—the landlord says so.”
“But he wishes us to arrive for déjeuner.”
“We will take it here. Perhaps we will drive over in the afternoon—perhaps the next day.”
And the young lady gazed at her mother with an air of indifference—or rather it seemed to me strangely like one of aversion and defiance.
“My dear!” cried the elder in consternation. “My dearest Marie!”
“It is just as I thought,” said I to myself complacently.
Marie Delhasse—for beyond doubt it was she—walked slowly across the room and sat down by her mother. I took a table nearer the door; the waiter appeared, and I ordered a light supper. Marie poured out a glass of wine from a bottle on the table; apparently they had been supping. They began to converse together in low tones. My repast arriving, I fell to. A few moments later, I heard Marie say, in her composed indolent tones:
