"Jeannine is just coming down," she says.
I ask: "How is she? Quite fit?"
"Very."
Then, recovering herself:
"I've been annoyed—with her."
But here is Jeannine herself.
I admire my self-control, for I get up and go towards her. There is nothing constrained in my gait; I hardly drag my leg. Dazzled, and yet at the same time clear-sighted, I look at her with a prejudiced eye. I do not think her as lovely as she was.
I have bowed and pressed her hand; a commonplace greeting has been exchanged. The little brother has already appeared, and is deafening me with a crowd of questions which I answer good-naturedly. How easily it passes, this moment, which I had dreaded so much. We might be back at Ballaigues: the tone of courtesy and irony—and of indifference—recovered.
A strange hour. The conversation does not flag. Mention is made of my family, whose regrets I am supposed to have brought. Then I plunge into praise of this heaven-blest country where they pass each winter. The grandmother interrupts me. This season is the last they will spend here.
"Really?"