“Yes, that they would open the shooting season.... They are going to do that, in the Poitou, where it does open until the 12th.”
“That is different!” murmured the master in a tone of defeat. “When do they arrive?”
“Monday, also!”
The master drew in his breath and asked, in a firmer voice:
“The same day as your husband?”
“Yes!” Zozé replied, watching him from the corner of one eye. “That is to say, George will arrive at nine. Uncle Panhias will meet him at the Gare du Nord, and he cannot be here before eleven. The Messrs. de Meuze arrive in the afternoon.... After all, George will be here a few hours later!”
“Tha right; a few hours later!” M. Raindal repeated, at all hazard.
He laid a hand upon his forehead, complaining of a sudden headache. The sun, no doubt ... or his haste in returning.
“With your permission, I shall not go out this morning!” he said. “I prefer to rest.”
Smiling, Mme. Chambannes watched him depart. Then a sudden sulkiness brought down the corners of her lips. After all, there was nothing for her to laugh at. Everything was taking an ugly turn. The master had taken seriously her banal words of courtesy to him and the regrets which, in a moment of anger, she had formulated concerning Gerald. Old Raindal was going to “stick to” Les Frettes for another fortnight! Thereupon, George was coming back from Bosnia! The marquis and his son arriving at the same time—as agreed. She had no hope that Raldo would agree to hurry their arrival! Barely one evening to see each other again, find each other again! And this, besides, would have to be before old Raindal, who was already sulky and would keep his eye on them! What ill-luck, what complications and difficulties!