Uncle Cyprien brushed back with his hand his hair which was so close-trimmed that is crackled with a ruffling noise under his fingers. He murmured disdainfully:
“Philosophy! Philosophy!... You know, my dear nephew, that we do not argue, you and I, ... you are too strong and too sure of yourself. There, I do mind admitting it, you make me feel ill at ease!”
M. Raindal returned, followed by his wife, her form hidden in her long cape. She wore in her hair an old mauve aigrette, the barbs of which were limp and spread out like a worn-out paint-brush.
“Well, are we ready?” the master of the house asked, looking at his brother.
“Yes, wl all go down together. Come along!”
A cab was waiting outside. Brigitte gave the drive number to M. Raindal.
The family sat closely huddled in the back seat. Uncle Cyprien closed the door on them and shouted as the carriage began to move:
“Good luck! A pleasant evening, nephew!”
He gave a friendly pinch to the chin of Brigitte, who stood stupidly smiling.
“Good night, my girl.... Go and dream of a fiancé!”