“What awful rain!” sighed Madame Worms-Clavelin.
“The weather has been dreadful for the last week,” said Maurice Cheiral, “simply rotten. Is it the same in your part of the country?”
“We get more rain in our department than in any other in France,” replied Madame Worms-Clavelin with charming sweetness. “But there is never any mud on the broad, gravelled garden paths of the Préfecture. Then we country people wear clogs.”
“Do you know,” said Cheiral, “that I have never been to your town?”
“There are beautiful walks there,” replied Madame Worms-Clavelin, “and the surroundings are charming. Do come and see us. My husband would be delighted.”
“Does your husband like living there?”
“Yes, he likes it because he has been successful there.”
In her turn, she tried to see through the clouded panes and to pierce the thick darkness that was full of fugitive glimmers of light.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Far away from everywhere, I should think,” he replied eagerly. “Where would you like me to put you down?”