Half-way down the hill the young people who were coming up cried out in their turn:
“Good-evening!”
Only Maurice and Mrs. Frasne were too far away to join in these family greetings. By tacit consent, they both walked more and more slowly as they approached the summit, and following all the windings of the path they had managed to get a further considerable space between themselves and the others, although Margaret had turned several times and called to them. The mountain was hidden from them by the close angle of the hillside, so that they saw the figures of Mr. and Mrs. Roquevillard in silhouette against the clear sky. Mrs. Frasne turned an enigmatic smile upon her companion, whom their tête-à-tête was making languid.
“Your father must have been handsomer than you,” she said, and added, quite low, as if to herself: “He’ll find out what he wants to, your father.”
The young man maintained a perverse silence.
“How old is your father?” she asked again, smiling at her success in having annoyed him.
“Sixty, I think.”
“Sixty years. Well, he detests me. If he could, he would suppress me with great pleasure.”
“You’re mistaken: he always welcomes you here.”
“Oh, those things can be felt. He detests me, and yet he interests me. I’ve always liked characters, myself.”