"To tell the truth, I have had nothing pleasant from Hyacinthe except that kiss we exchanged when her husband was only a few feet away. I certainly shall not again find her lips a-flame and fragrant. Here her kiss is insipid."
Mme. Chantelouve rang earlier than usual.
"Well," she said, sitting down. "You wrote me a nice letter."
"How's that?"
"Confess frankly that you are through with me."
He denied this, but she shook her head.
"Well," he said, "what have you to reproach me with? Having written you only a short note? But there was someone here, I was busy and I didn't have time to assemble pretty speeches. Not having set a date sooner? I told you our relation necessitates precautions, and we can't see each other very often. I think I gave you clearly to understand my motives—"
"I am so stupid that I probably did not understand them. You spoke to me of 'family reasons,' I believe."
"Yes."
"Rather vague."