Joseph in the house would be a very different matter.—There are mauvaises langues in Buissac!'
'But what of her winters in Bordeaux? She lives all by herself in winter.'
The old lady kept some unspoken suspicion, that was evident as she said: 'Motors—they are not for my age. In my youth it was a coach-and-four I drove in, and in Paris my equipage was renowned for its brilliancy;—ah, what horses I had! Beautiful creatures, jet black and with red rosettes at their ears! That is the conveyance I care for! Motors confuse and distress me. Hardly does one recognize a scene before it is gone. One feels that one leaves oneself, dismembered, along the road!—One leaves oneself stuck to the landscape behind one!—like those distressing insects that cling to our lamps on summer nights!—you know them? Insects with long red bodies. One tries to withdraw them from their predicament—and the body comes off in one's fingers while the face and front feet remain attached to the lamp! So motoring affects me!'
The wonderful old creature had managed to amuse herself, and as she saw Jill's laughter she laughed, too, if ruefully. 'Aren't they dreadful! I know! I know!' said Jill. 'And such mournful faces, poor things. Why should they be so silly!'
'Ah, we are not unlike them,' said the old lady, darkly now, as another analogy offered itself. 'We are not unlike those insects. We, too, burn ourselves at the lamp of love! It is the destiny of women!
