She turned round.
“Your jokes are in bad taste, Jean,” she murmured after having made sure of M. Landeau’s absence.
“You are afraid of him,” she added.
“Oh, no, I am not.”
“You don’t like him?”
“No.”
“So that, before you would consent to—flirt, it would be necessary for him to please you?”
He began to laugh. “Exactly,” he said.
“That is very strange.”
“You are his wife.”