“How do you do, Jean?”
She called him by his Christian name, on the pretext of having met him once when he was quite a small boy.
“Here is a red mallet. Let us stop this game. Nobody is interested in it now. Let us begin again. I shall take you on my side.”
She rearranged the game as she wished and appeared for a minute to be very absorbed in it. Jean’s ball came to the rescue of hers, which with a skilful shot she had sent flying into the grass, far away from the hoops. They made the best use of this privacy for which they had been wishing.
“Yes,” she said, and he noticed her pallor as she spoke—“I have to tell you of my coming marriage to a Lyons manufacturer. A business marriage!”
“My congratulations.”
“Thank you. He has several millions and some prosperous factories. He has promised my lawyer to make a good settlement. After that, you understand, it matters very little that he is ugly, in the forties, and burdened with a ridiculous name.”
“Of course.”
“Isn’t that so?”
They were recalled and scolded for delaying. In vain their partners tried to revive their interest. It was entirely their fault that their side lost the game.