She reminded him that eight minutes ago he had taken himself seriously. "It was you who made me," he retorted, "you have given me back my youth."
They went on like that for quite a long time—gallant lawn-tennis—long base line rallies with an occasional smash. And then he said that he must be indiscreet—specifically so. Why had she come to St. Jean-les-Flots?
It was, she explained meditatively, an escape (he noticed that it was the second time that she had used that word). The Hotel Bungalow was very clean, the food was good, the air was marvellous....
She pulled herself together.
When you took a holiday, she said, you had to make a careful choice between old acquaintances and new ones. Which was likely to be the more tiring? She herself always went to new places at the wrong time of year. Then it was a case of friendship, or nothing. The people who visited watering places out of season were always either impossible or enchanting. Very often amusingly impossible and temporarily enchanting, but so much the better. There is a certain safety in the transitory.
Is Madame married? Maurice asked abruptly. It was the sort of question that had to be asked brusquely, or not at all.
"Yes—No—Yes. That is to say, I have a husband. He will probably come here for a day or two later. He is très comme il faut."
"Surely you do not blame him for coming to see you."
She shrugged her shoulders.
"It is magnificent, but it is not life. One is not always young enough to permit oneself these phantasies. At fifty-six it is silly to waste two days visiting some one you don't want to see. But there, Edmond is like that. Oh! the stability when he says 'my wife.' It is superb. It must be grand, too, when he says 'ma maitresse'; he has the property sense. And how he adores women, woman, all women, any woman. Even sometimes me. And when he doesn't, he keeps the habits. Toujours des petits soins. He never goes out of training, even at home."