"Some one?" And she looked searchingly at her father. "I know, it's Denoisel. Did you write to him?"
"Not at all. You did not ask to see him, so that I did not know whether it would give you any pleasure. Do you mind?"
"Mother, give me my little red shawl—there, in the drawer," she said, without answering her father. "I mustn't frighten him, you know. Now then, bring him here quickly," she added, as soon as her shawl was tied at the neck like a scarf.
Denoisel came into the room, which was impregnated with that odour peculiar to the young when they are ill, and which reminds one of a faded bouquet and of dying flowers.
"It's very nice of you to have come," said Renée. "Look, I've put this shawl on for your benefit; you used to like me in it."
Denoisel stooped down, took her hands in his and kissed them.
"It's Denoisel," said M. Mauperin to his wife, who was seated at the other end of the room.
Mme. Mauperin did not appear to have heard. A minute later she got up, came across to Denoisel, kissed him in a lifeless sort of way, and then went back to the dark corner where she had been sitting.
"Well, how do you think I look? I haven't changed much, have I?" And then without giving him time to answer, she went on: "I have a dreadful father who will keep saying I don't look well, and who is most obstinate. It's no good telling him I am better; he will have it that I am not. When I am quite well again, you'll see—he'll insist on fancying that I am still an invalid."
Denoisel was looking at her wasted arm, just above the wrist.