The hours seemed long to him, and as he set out for the Boulevard Malesherbes he was seized with a fear of not finding her, which would force him still to pass the evening alone, as he had passed so many others.
To his query: “Is the Countess at home?” the servant's answer, “Yes, Monsieur,” filled him with joy.
He said, with a radiant air: “It is I again!” as he appeared at the threshold of the smaller drawing-room where the two ladies were working, under the pink shade of a double lamp of English metal, on a high and slender standard.
“What, is it you? How fortunate!” exclaimed the Countess.
“Well, yes. I feel very lonely, so I came.”
“How nice of you!”
“You are expecting someone?”
“No—perhaps—I never know.”
He had seated himself and now looked scornfully at the gray knitting-work that mother and daughter were swiftly making from heavy wool, working at it with long needles.
“What is that?” he asked.