“Mademoiselle!” Gerald said, offering his arm to Thérèse.
The young girl laid her hand on it but avoided his eyes, disdainfully turning her head away. They walked to the drawing-room without a word. Gerald multiplied his courteous, deferential attitudes; he drew in his chest and gave all the signs of a well-bred man of the world who knew that he was at fault and exonerated himself silently. He escorted her to Mme. Raindal and softly withdrew his arm.
“Mademoiselle!”
He bowed with much ceremony and directed his steps towards the smoking-room. Thérèse could not prevent herself from watching him.
The balancing of his tall frame on his bent legs gave him the relieved, weary gait of a man who has just come down from his horse, or of one who has accomplished an imposed task. Outside the smoking-room he took Mazuccio familiarly by the shoulders to make him pass in front; she heard them still laughing behind the old tapestry portière—a mysterious throaty laugh which even at a distance had an obscene sound.
“Well, dear?” M. Raindal murmured, as he approached in short and somewhat heavy steps. “How was the dinner?”
“Excellent,” Thérèse replied coldly, and sat down to the right of her mother. “I am delighted that we came....”
“That is what I thought,” M. Raindal continued softly, mistaking his daughte tone. “This Mme. Chambannes entertains people in the most perfect fashion.... Now ... you agree that I was right not to let myself be stopped by certain prejudices, certain preconceived ideas!...”
This allusion caused Mme. Raindal to blush suddenly, but Thérèse, a sneer on her lips, whispered:
“Why, surely, father, I told you.... These people improve very much on closer acquaintance....”