He murmured that the idea had never occurred to him, and was about to draw up a chair, when his eye caught a letter that was lying on the lowered flap of the bureau. In patent agitation, and without excusing himself, he seized it and tore it open. Madeleine saw his face darken. He read the letter through twice, from beginning to end, then tore it into a dozen pieces and scattered them on the shelf.
"No bad news, I hope?"
He turned his face to her; it was still contracted. "That depends on how you look at it, Madeleine," he said, and laughed in an unpleasant manner.
After this, he seemed to forget her again; he stood staring at the scraps of paper with a frown. For some minutes, she waited. Then she saw herself forced to recall him to the fact of her presence.
"Could you spare me a little attention now?" she asked. At her words, he jumped, and, with evident confusion, brought his wandering thoughts home. "I can't sit here for ever you know," she added.
"I beg your pardon." He came up to the table, and took the chair he had previously had his hand on. "The fact is I—Can I do anything for you, Madeleine?"
"For me? Oh, dear, no!—You are surprised to find me here, no doubt! But as I'm leaving to-morrow morning, I thought I'd run up and say good-bye to you—that's all. A case of Mohammed and the mountain, you see."
"Leaving? To-morrow?"
"Yes.—Goodness, there's nothing wonderful in that, is there? Most people do leave some time or other, you know." His reply was inaudible. "It was very good of you to look me up," he threw in as an afterthought.
Madeleine, watching him, with a thin, sarcastic smile on her lips, had chanced to let her eyes stray to his hands, which he had laid on the table, and she continued to fix them, fascinated in spite of herself by the uncared-for condition of the nails. These were bitten, and broken, and dirty. Maurice, becoming aware of her intent gaze, looked down to see what it was at, hastily withdrew his hands and hid them in his pockets.