After waiting five minutes he was shown into the study in which he had passed such a pleasant morning. In the chair he had occupied Forestier was now seated writing, in a dressing-gown and slippers and with a little Scotch bonnet on his head, while his wife in the same white gown leant against the mantelpiece and dictated, cigarette in mouth.
Duroy, halting on the threshold, murmured: "I really beg your pardon; I am afraid I am disturbing you."
His friend, turning his face towards him—an angry face, too—growled: "What is it you want now? Be quick; we are pressed for time."
The intruder, taken back, stammered: "It is nothing; I beg your pardon."
But Forestier, growing angry, exclaimed: "Come, hang it all, don't waste time about it; you have not forced your way in just for the sake of wishing us good-morning, I suppose?"
Then Duroy, greatly perturbed, made up his mind. "No—you see—the fact is—I can't quite manage my article—and you were—so—so kind last time—that I hoped—that I ventured to come—"
Forestier cut him short. "You have a pretty cheek. So you think I am going to do your work, and that all you have to do is to call on the cashier at the end of the month to draw your screw? No, that is too good."
The young woman went on smoking without saying a word, smiling with a vague smile, which seemed like an amiable mask, concealing the irony of her thoughts.
Duroy, colored up, stammered: "Excuse me—I fancied—I thought—" then suddenly, and in a clear voice, he went on: "I beg your pardon a thousand times, Madame, while again thanking you most sincerely for the charming article you produced for me yesterday." He bowed, remarked to Charles: "I shall be at the office at three," and went out.
He walked home rapidly, grumbling: "Well, I will do it all alone, and they shall see—"