“I’m not sure I shall go at all. Entre nous, he bores me.”
I stole a glance at Mme. Delhasse. Consternation was writ large on her face, and suspicion besides. She gave her daughter a quick sidelong glance, and a frown gathered on her brow. So far as I heard, however, she attempted no remonstrance. She rose, wrapping a shawl round her, and made for the door. I sprang up and opened it; she walked out. Marie drew a chair to the fire and sat down with her back to me, toasting her feet—for the summer night had turned chilly. I finished my supper. The clock struck half-past eleven. I stifled a yawn; one smoke and then to the bed was my programme.
Marie Delhasse turned her head half-round.
“You must not,” said she, “let me prevent you having your cigarette. I should set you at ease by going to bed, but I can’t sleep so early, and upstairs the fire is not lighted.”
I thanked her and approached the fire. She was gazing into it meditatively. Presently she looked up.
“Smoke, sir,” she said imperiously but languidly.
I obeyed her, and stood looking down at her, admiring her stately beauty.
“You have passed the day here?” she asked, gazing again into the fire.
“In this neighborhood,” said I, with discreet vagueness.
“You have been able to pass the time?”
