She sat down and clasped her red hands across her knees. She replied with a graceful air of boredom to the questions which her mother asked about her health, and listened wearily to her instructions about healthy habits and to her advice in the matter of cod-liver oil. Then she asked:
“And how is papa?”
Madame Worms-Clavelin was almost astonished whenever anyone asked her about her husband, not because she was herself indifferent to him, but because she felt it was impossible to say anything new about this firm, unchangeable, stolid man, who was never ill and who never said or did anything original.
“Your father? What could happen to him? We have a very good position and no wish to change it.”
All the same, she thought it would soon be advisable to look out for a suitable sinecure, either in the treasury, or, perhaps rather, in the Council of State. At the thought her beautiful eyes grew dim with reverie.
Her daughter asked what she was thinking about.
“I was thinking that one day we might return to Paris. I like Paris for my part, but there we should hardly count.”
“Yet papa has great abilities. Sister Sainte-Marie-des-Anges said so once in class. She said: ‘Mademoiselle de Clavelin, your father has shown great administrative talents.’”
Madame Worms-Clavelin shook her head. “One wants so much money to live in style in Paris.”
“You like Paris, mamma, but for my part I like the country best.”