And then the conversation ended; they said not another word. Still she did not leave the room. A long quarter of an hour passed, and she turned round again without seeming to notice the look of exasperation overspreading the lad’s face, which was already white with the effects of uncertainty and constraint. He was casting sidelong glances in the direction of the drawing room.
Maybe Nana was still crying. The other must have grown savage and have dealt her blows. Thus when Zoé finally took her departure he ran to the door and once more pressed his ear against it. He was thunderstruck; his head swam, for he heard a brisk outburst of gaiety, tender, whispering voices and the smothered giggles of a woman who is being tickled. Besides, almost directly afterward, Nana conducted Philippe to the head of the stairs, and there was an exchange of cordial and familiar phrases.
When Georges again ventured into the drawing room the young woman was standing before the mirror, looking at herself.
“Well?” he asked in utter bewilderment.
“Well, what?” she said without turning round. Then negligently:
“What did you mean? He’s very nice, is your brother!”
“So it’s all right, is it?”
“Oh, certainly it’s all right! Goodness me, what’s come over you? One would have thought we were going to fight!”
Georges still failed to understand.
“I thought I heard—that is, you didn’t cry?” he stammered out.