“My little one,” stammered her father on seeing us.
He, ordinarily so calm and self-controlled, was greatly moved now, showing openly the emotion that gripped him. He had grown older, and stooped; and for the first time I thought his demonstrations of fatherly affection overdone. After loving and almost minute scrutiny of his daughter, he turned to me and took my hand:
“Thank you,” he said.
He gave me the credit for Raymonde’s good health, and assured me of his confidence in me at the very moment when I was thinking how to get away, astonished at this excess of gratitude.
Mme. Mairieux was never weary of admiring us. Sometimes she made a special point of calling me by my first name; and again she abandoned these happy advances as if she feared their boldness. She gloried in the length of our journey, the importance of our hotels, and even in the beauty of Rome. It was all part of the new and longed-for luxury which I gave my wife, the mere announcement of which pleased her like a coloured poster.
One day, when Raymonde was a little later than usual, I had an opportunity to watch from my window the manœuvres of her father, who rode up for the express purpose of waiting for her at the threshold. It was very natural, yet instead of sympathising with his expectation I felt only impatience at it.
My wife came in after the luncheon bell had sounded.
“Where have you been?” I asked quite unfairly.
“Down there.”
“I suppose so. Are you not always thrusting yourself in there?”