Frederic walked with her down the street, and found it hard to keep up with her, she went so swiftly. He made one last effort and said:
“I want to see the child . . . Our own was . . .”
Annie had heard about that from Serge. She turned to him and held out her hands:
“I’m so sorry. . . . You shall see him just this once, if you’ll promise me never to come again . . . and he is not to know who you are. He has never heard of you.”
The unconscious cruelty of her words did not penetrate Frederic’s mind. The situation appealed to him as a situation. He was becoming a connoisseur, and the ironically bitter savour of this tickled his palate. With offensive humility and gratitude he said:
“Thank you . . . Thank you.”
The boy was in bed sleeping, with the clothes tumbled by his restlessness and his arms flung across his face.
“He is such a good boy,” said Annie; “he has always been good and happy.”
“He is like you,” said Frederic. “I am glad I have seen him. I am glad to have found you again.”
“Will you go now?”