"A mauve dress, rather awkwardly devised. Although she is short she is mad on flounces."
They then talked about the other women. Maxime was now burning his fingers with the gown.
"But you will scorch it," said Renée whose voice was maternally caressing.
Céleste took the gown from the young fellow's hands. He rose up, and went to look at the large pink and grey bed, fixing his eyes upon one of the bouquets embroidered on the curtains, so as to be able to turn his head, and not see Renée's bare bosom. It was instinctive. He no longer considered himself her lover, so he no longer had the right to look. Then he drew a cigar from his pocket and lighted it. Renée had given him permission to smoke in her apartments. At last Céleste retired, leaving the young woman by the fireside, quite white in her night attire.
Maxime walked about for a few moments longer, silent, and looking out of the corner of his eye at Renée who seemed to be again seized with a shudder. Then stationing himself in front of the mantelpiece with his cigar between his teeth, he asked in a curt voice:
"Why didn't you tell me that it was my father who was with you last night?"
She raised her head, his eyes dilated with supreme anguish; then a rush of blood crimsoned her face, and, overwhelmed with shame, she hid it with her hands and stammered:
"You know that? you know that?"
Regaining her self-possession she tried to lie:
"It's not true—Who told it you?"